Contents

Cover

Also by Candace Robb

Copyright

Praise for Candace Robb

About the author

Dedication

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Maps

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Also by Candace Robb

The Owen Archer mysteries

THE APOTHECARY ROSE *

THE LADY CHAPEL *

THE NUN’S TALE *

THE KING’S BISHOP *

THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S *

A GIFT OF SANCTUARY *

A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER *

THE CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT *

THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS *

A VIGIL OF SPIES *

A CONSPIRACY OF WOLVES *

A CHOIR OF CROWS *

THE RIVERWOMAN’S DRAGON *

A FOX IN THE FOLD *

The Margaret Kerr series

A TRUST BETRAYED

THE FIRE IN THE FLINT

A CRUEL COURTSHIP

The Kate Clifford series

THE SERVICE OF THE DEAD

A TWISTED VENGEANCE

A MURDERED PEACE

* available from Severn House

A SNAKE IN THE BARLEY

Candace Robb

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2024

by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

severnhouse.com

Copyright © Candace Robb, 2024

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1316-7 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1575-8 (e-book)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

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Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Praise for the Owen Archer historical mysteries

“Robb reinforces her place among the top writers of medieval historicals”

Publishers Weekly Starred Review of A Fox in the Fold

“A highlight in a solid series”

Publishers Weekly on The Riverwoman’s Dragon

“A melange of medieval political plotting … Sure to please fans of historical mysteries”

Kirkus Reviews on A Choir of Crows

“Robb once again effectively blends crime with the politics of 14th-century England”

Publishers Weekly on A Choir of Crows

“Recommended for fans of C J Sansom, Ellis Peters and Sharon Kay Penman”

Library Journal on A Conspiracy of Wolves

“A multitude of new and old supporting characters round out the delightful cast and contribute to the twists and turns of the compelling plot”

Booklist on A Conspiracy of Wolves

About the author

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of fourteen previous Owen Archer mysteries, three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries and the Margaret Kerr trilogy.

www.candacerobbbooks.com

For Charlie

Author’s Note

This book is first and foremost a love story that I’ve been itching to tell for a long while, that of Bess and Tom Merchet. But, as ever, I tell their tale in the context of the times. For me it adds spice.

By spring 1377 King Edward III’s health had deteriorated to the point at which he had handed over most of his responsibilities to his eldest living son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. This, in the minds of many, made credible the rumors that on his father’s death Lancaster would wrest the crown from the young son of his late elder brother, Prince Richard. Not that everyone welcomed the prospect of a child king, which conjured the specter of regents fighting for control and foreign powers eyeing the realm as weak and ripe for conquest; but Lancaster was never as beloved of the people as his father and his late brother Prince Edward, and the feeling was mutual – he held himself above the Commons and made no secret of his dislike for their growing power.

Nor did he like the power and wealth of the clergy, and therein lay the immediate issue that led to the riots in London cited in this novel. He supported John Wycliffe, a priest who was brought to trial by William Courtenay, Bishop of London, in February of 1377, for his outspoken criticism of the wealth of the clergy, particularly the endowments that provided their livings. Lancaster summoned doctors of divinity to defend Wycliffe, and had the Marshal, Henry Percy, on hand to maintain order as a crowd gathered to witness the trial. Percy suggested that Wycliffe find a comfortable seat for what might be a long round of questioning, but Bishop Courtenay objected, demanding Wycliffe remain standing. ‘As an argument broke out, John of Gaunt furiously stormed into the Lady Chapel of St Paul’s Cathedral with an armed following. Before the shocked convocation of clergymen, he threatened to drag Bishop Courtenay out by his hair.’ The threat stirred the people and the situation escalated. Gaunt and Percy withdrew to Kennington Palace, seeking refuge with Joan of Kent.*

It’s not Henry Percy but his brother Thomas Percy whose man, Bertram Hawkins, is mentioned in this novel. When I read about Thomas’s capture by Owain of Wales (Owen Lawgoch) in the early 1370s while seneschal of Poitou, I imagined him smarting from the experience and couldn’t resist using it.†

It’s always a delight to revisit the town of Beverley. Regarding the governance of the minster and town, the reader might find some terms unfamiliar. Beverley Minster was never a cathedral, so the senior cleric was a provost rather than a dean. Nor did the town have a mayor at this time – not until the sixteenth century – so in Owen’s day he would refer to a burgess or keeper elected by the merchants. I’ve chosen the latter term, keeper. Interestingly, the Archbishop of York was the Lord of the Manor of Beverley.‡

Helen Carr, The Red Prince John of Gaunt Duke of Lancaster, One World 2021. p. 111

Mark Ormrod, Edward III, Yale University Press 2011. p. 513

Email correspondence with Dr Louise Hampson, 3 March 2024

Acknowledgments

Writing a novel is a solitary undertaking, which is why this page is so precious: it’s my opportunity to thank the friends who are there for me throughout the year coaxing me out of my solitude – neighbors, my small sangha groups, fellow writers, and so many other wonderful people. You know who you are.

And there are colleagues I count as good friends, such as Louise Hampson, PhD, and Mary Morse, PhD, who carefully read my manuscripts and provide thoughtful, immensely helpful suggestions, as well as insightful exchanges throughout the writing while I’m shaping the book. You are the best. My agent Jennifer Weltz, advocate and partner-in-crime, has a knack for seeing the big picture and nudging me to take advantage of missed opportunities and reconsider infelicitous decisions. I don’t know how you do it every time. Another friend who supports me in myriad ways is talented and prolific writer Chris Nickson. We muse about the writing process, the activities that nurture us, and what’s going on in the world. A writing friend is someone who understands.

I have the fortune to work with a talented team at Severn House who’ve been busy on my behalf the past year with the monumental task of reissuing the first ten books in this series, part of which was designing gorgeous covers that look fabulous together. A special shout out to my editor Sara Porter who kept everything moving smoothly and gave me the opportunity to participate in decisions. My gratitude to the whole team!

As ever I am grateful to my husband Charlie for his beautiful maps and for listening to my anguished ramblings of an evening when I climb the stairs from my office with trouble on my mind. And my cat Maggie, who curls up on my lap and rests her chin on my hands as I type, or sits in the window across from my desk and chatters to the birds, nudging me to look up and return to the present.

Last but not least, my thanks to you, the reader, for taking my books into your home and your heart.

I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you:

Nor can imagination form a shape

Besides yourself to like of.

The Tempest, Act 3 Scene 1

One

The Pain of His Absence

York, mid-March 1377

As a taverner Bess Merchet paid scant heed to the gossip shared by the patrons of the York Tavern over their bowls and tankards of ale, forgetting most of it by day’s end. But this was different, the gossip about the disappearance of her husband Tom, an absence that tore at her heart and had her frantic with worry. This she could neither ignore nor forget. For years she had presided over this tavern room, welcoming the regulars, watching the newcomers with a wary eye to ensure the peace that people came here to enjoy. With her at the helm the tavern and inn prospered, now known as one of the cleanest and safest in York, with the best brew in the shire. But of late …

Bess slapped a damp cloth down onto the table and put all her frustration into rubbing out a spot, though nothing could ease her humiliation for serving inferior ale in the tavern. Her daughter Mary was doing her best to brew according to the worn piece of parchment Tom had handed her along with a few hasty instructions before haring off Our Lord knew where, but she could not produce it as quickly as needed to keep up their reputation.

‘Do you mean to wear a hole in my favorite table?’

‘Mind yourself,’ Bess snapped at Old Bede. But she softened as she noticed the child holding tight to her grandfather’s hand. The old man, once a drunk, now entrusted with his daughter’s eldest on his rambles about town – that was a milestone to be celebrated. Bess would serve him some of the better ale, being such a loyal customer. All the regulars were being kind. She could be grateful for that. And she knew it was not the humiliation of inferior ale she was trying to scrub out, it was Tom’s absence, as if she needed but a tidy, well-run tavern with quality brew to magic him home, safe and sound. She regretted snapping at Bede.

‘No word of Tom yet?’ Old Bede asked, his eyes sad.

And now she felt worse. ‘Nothing. But Captain Archer and his men are searching.’

He touched her forearm with a claw-like hand. ‘The captain will find him.’

‘I pray he does,’ she managed. Of all the seasons to disappear, March, with its changeable weather, sunny and warm one day, snowing the next, and Tom without his heaviest cloak and boots. Hiding her sudden tears, Bess bent to the child and asked if she would like some warm honeyed lemon water.

The child nodded, her eyes bright, and held up her mittened hands. ‘Cold fingers!’

Though they moved toward spring, a braw wind with the tang of snow warned that winter had not yet stepped aside. Dear Lord, watch over my Tom.

Bess rubbed one of the child’s hands, then the other, inspiring giggles, then hurried to the kitchen as she wiped her eyes on her apron.

Her daughter Mary glanced at her and lifted a small bowl. ‘Try this. I think it’s my best yet.’

A cautious sip. The tears spilled over.

‘Not yet?’ Mary asked.

‘Yes, oh, yes, Mary, it is quite like Tom’s.’ Bess sobbed the last words.

Mary drew her mother into her arms, kissed her cheek, rocked her slightly as she said, ‘He will walk in the door any moment now. It’s the way of the world. Now we’ve proved we can do this, he will return and take the credit.’ This child of her first marriage was as gentle and generous as her father Will, Bess’s first husband.

Mary’s arrival had proved a blessing. Widowed now a second time, she had come to heal in her mother’s home, her own children in service or wed, her sudden solitude not at all to her taste, and now she comforted Bess.

Despite herself, Bess smiled at her daughter’s prediction. ‘It is the way.’ She wiped her eyes and silently prayed, Let it be so, my Lord. Five days Tom had been gone, disappearing without a word. In the weeks before he had been edgy, moody, not at all himself, vanishing for hours without warning. But this. He had never been away so long in their twenty-one years of marriage. She feared for him, her gentle Tom.

At night, alone in the bed she had shared with him for so long, she felt the void of his absence as a horror, a threat to her own existence. She was nothing without Tom. During the day she pulled that thought down to the ground and stamped on it. Of course she was still Bess, the best thing that had ever happened to Tom and this tavern. She had her children, her friends, her work. But in the long hours of the night that certainty deserted her. Her husband was gone, leaving her cold, lonely, aching, absent of all sense of a future she cared to face. Alone.

It was the fourth day of the city-wide search, Owen’s men taking turns walking the neighborhoods asking all whom they encountered if they had seen Tom Merchet about in the past few weeks. According to Bess and Mary he’d been slipping off without warning, and on his return evaded questions about the where or the why. For Owen’s purpose the where came first, the why would follow. People reported fleeting glimpses of a man who might be Tom Merchet, stories being shared of his peculiar humor of late, and many offered prayers for him and for Bess. But today Owen received the first possibly solid evidence, a tenement on Coney Street that a goodwife had seen him enter and leave a number of times in the few months that a woman had been lodging there. He was not the only man visiting her, several quite frequently, including a younger man in stained clothing – perhaps a tanner or painter according to the witness, who apologized for her failing eyesight. It was good enough to see vague discolorations in the cloth, Owen thought, and that the woman lodger seemed unwell, with an unsteady gait, and had graying hair. Who was she to Tom?

The landlord, John Moor, said she had paid for several months, which he had demanded because she had no pack with her, no cart of belongings. But she had not flinched at the price. Gave her name as Widow Cobb.

‘And her given name?’

‘I did not ask. Seemed disrespectful.’

As long as she could pay, Owen thought.

Moor, too, described her as ungainly, stumbling up the steps, holding onto walls. Missing a tooth up front, but who wasn’t by the time their hair silvered. He himself had silvered hair, a prosperous man who wore well-tailored clothing with pride and carried a complex scent of rosewater and fennel. And if he was missing a tooth, the gap was not visible.

‘Did she mention a younger man?’ Owen asked. ‘A son, perhaps?’

‘Said she had kin in the city. But not who they might be. Why have you not spoken to her?’

‘She may have nothing to do with Merchet and then I’ve worried her needlessly. One of my men will watch for a while, see whether the goodwife was right.’

‘That alone would be worrying, a man watching the house.’ Moor rocked on his heels, frowning at the tenement, doubtless worrying about losing the rents. ‘Eyes and ears eager for gossip see all, Captain. But I suppose I’ve no choice.’

‘I’m using two of my best men,’ Owen said. ‘They are good at not being noticed.’

‘I’d be grateful if they manage that.’ The landlord went off muttering to himself.

Owen’s man Alfred, who’d waited at a discreet distance, joined him. ‘Do you think this is where he’s been?’

‘We’ve only the one witness who saw him here, and she warns her eyesight is poor. Stand watch until sundown. Stephen will stand the night watch.’ They were his best men. He described the woman again and reminded Alfred of the younger man with stained clothing.

‘Who do you think she is to him?’ Alfred asked.

‘I wish I knew. They might be strangers, he’s nothing to her, and Tom might never have been here.’

‘We’ll find him, Captain. I’ve no doubt of that. Off to Walmgate, then?’

‘I am. The gatekeeper believes he saw Tom heading out of the city around the time of his disappearance.’ Which would explain why they’d had so little success finding him.

‘It’s helpful so many know Tom.’

For good or ill, Owen thought.

As he walked through the city, quieter than usual with the penetrating wind, Owen reflected on his long friendship with the missing man, begun when he lodged at the York Tavern upon first arriving in the city. Though they were initially wary of the stranger with the strong Welsh accent, Tom and Bess soon befriended him. When he wed Lucie Wilton he’d become their neighbor. For over a decade Tom and Bess had been like family, godparents to his children, always included in celebrations and feast days, ever ready to help in the dark times. Yet Owen knew little of Tom’s life before he’d arrived in the city some thirty years past. He knew that Tom had bought the York Tavern with a partner about ten years before he met Bess, but he knew nothing of the partner except that he’d disappeared with what little money they had made, and it was Bess who had turned the York Tavern into a thriving business. To be sure, Tom’s ale was one of the reasons for its popularity, but it was Bess who ran everything else.

If it were Bess acting strangely Owen would look to her family; not her children or former husbands, but some of her more distant kin who had embraced smuggling off the coast around Scarborough and Robin Hood’s Bay, or stolen from the most prosperous smugglers in the area.

But quiet, dependable Tom, who rarely spoke a cross word, who loved his wife and considered her his redemption, whose kin were ever sending their wayward sons to the tavern to learn responsibility from their uncle – that he would suddenly desert Bess and neglect his business was incomprehensible. Something or someone had pushed him to this. Owen’s own recent experience, a nemesis from his past reappearing with the intention of destroying him, his family, and all he held dear, had him looking closely at newcomers to the city. There were plenty of rats fleeing the troubles to the south. And it was those troubles that worried him most. Tom had a big heart, and if an old friend in need had come calling …

With the old king dying and reports of violent unrest in the city of London all strangers were examined for signs they were trying to escape the king’s wrath – or rather that of the Duke of Lancaster, the king’s son who had taken on the duties his dying father could no longer perform. As Captain of the City and Princess Joan’s spy in the north, Owen was alert to any trouble echoing the turmoil in London. So far it had been quiet but for Tom’s vanishing. Yet he knew the peace might not hold. Representatives of the northern nobles were regularly sending their men to confer with Owen about the king’s peace in the north as well as providing him tidbits of news, mostly rumors, to include in his letters to Princess Joan, and all were wary.

‘Captain Archer.’

Owen glanced up as he crossed Foss Bridge. Someone hurried after him. A familiar face, oddly grooved as if his head had been stuck in … one of his pots, yes, Will Potter. Lost in his thoughts, Owen had just passed his shop on Fossgate. He paused until Potter caught up. He might have information. Potter had often been of help, seeming to know all the gossip in the parishes around the Foss and Walmgate.

‘Good day to you, Will.’

‘You’ve long legs and a good stride, Captain.’ Potter’s laugh dissolved into a cough and he bent for a moment to catch his breath, then straightened. ‘I saw you passing and … I should have come to you sooner.’

Though Owen was itching to continue, he did not rush the man. ‘You have me hoping you’ve news for me.’

‘When I heard about Merchet disappearing it changed my thinking about an argument I’d heard some days back.’

‘I’m headed to Walmgate. We can talk while we walk. At a slower pace.’

‘Appreciated!’ Potter fell into step beside Owen. ‘It was something I heard. I did not see the pair, was packing a barrel. A young man, his voice cracking, and another, older, who seemed desperate for him to speak more softly. The young one said that it was no good running, he would know, and he would find him, that he meant to get his due from the older man. “And my father, your old friend. I heard him say so.” The other man asked, “Jewels?” That made no sense to me, but the young one said, “Yes.” The other one said that he was crazy. “Jewels is dead,” and the other said, “Not to him. And he wants me dead as well.”’

‘Jules, from Julian?’

‘That would make sense of it.’

Owen glanced over when Potter went quiet. ‘What did the older man say to that?’

‘Denied that Jules had been his friend. The young man said he was wrong about that. I could not make out the rest.’ He shook his head. ‘By the Rood, I felt a chill in my bones to hear it, I won’t deny it. But not knowing who I’d heard, well, like I say, I didn’t think it something to report until one of your men came round asking if I’d seen Tom Merchet. And even then I didn’t think of it. It came to me later that the older man sounded like Tom. Can’t guess at the young one. And who the person was that the younger called Jules, I couldn’t say.’

‘Time of day?’

‘Before dinner, but into the early afternoon. Wife chided me for being late. I had a customer might come for the packed barrel any time.’ He gave a crooked smile that moved his face in unusual ways. ‘This was four days past. I hear Merchet’s been away from the tavern a day longer, but that’s when it was, I am sure of it.’

‘Monday?’

Potter shook his head. ‘I meant Tuesday.’

‘Did they walk away together?’

‘No. Heard the young man muttering curses. When I finished the packing I looked for him, thought he might need help. But by then he’d gone.’

‘You know Tom’s voice so well you are fairly certain it was him?’

‘You’ve seen me at the York. I’ve stumbled home many a time, stopping in alleys to empty my insides. I walk the distance for Tom Merchet’s ale, and to see my old friend Bede.’

That was right. He was one of Old Bede’s drinking companions. Owen could picture him now at the table. ‘Bede’s a changed man these days.’

Potter grinned. ‘That long swim in the river that time. Changed him. And his Winifrith’s marriage. He likes your Alfred, and he’s grateful to be welcome in their home. Not every man would take in his new wife’s old father.’

Owen puzzled over Potter’s report. Could the young man be the one seen visiting the widow whose lodging his men were now watching? Who was it who wanted the young man dead, and wanted his due from Tom and Jules? What did he think they owed him?

Walmgate was quiet enough at midday that Walter, the gatekeeper, had time to talk to Owen.

‘Well, it was a queer thing, Captain, but I didn’t think of it when your men came asking after the taverner.’

Owen wondered what everyone was thinking when they were asked.

‘And then my daughter said how she admired Tom Merchet for providing St Nicholas Hospital with ale now and then, and I remembered I’d seen him four or five days ago and thought nothing of it because he often comes through, but leading a horse this time instead of his donkey cart, had a pack behind the saddle but no barrel, not even a small cask. But I didn’t think much about it. Still, there was the matter of the other man.’

Owen had not known that Tom provided ale for the lepers and their caretakers at St Nicholas Hospital just beyond Walmgate. What else didn’t he know? ‘What other man?’

‘You see, Tom went through and a while later a stranger came to the gate and asked if I’d seen Taverner Merchet. And as I didn’t like the look of this one – built like an ox, this man, and a pleasant face if not for a funny squint in one eye, so it was not, in truth, his looks I did not like but the way he said “Merchet” like it was a bad taste. So I said I could not say I’d seen him.’

‘Did the stranger come from within or without the city?’

‘From the city, Captain. Lucky for us he was leaving. Maybe not so fortunate for Tom, but at least he had no horse.’ Walter shook his head. ‘He looked like trouble to me.’

‘How long after Tom went out?’

‘Not an hour. The stranger returned some time later. Alone and angry.’

‘And you say Tom was leading his horse, not his donkey cart.’

‘Right. No donkey cart, no barrel, leading a horse and a pack behind his saddle like he was a wayfaring.’

Owen thanked him. ‘If you see Tom or the stranger, or hear anything that might be about them, I want to know at once.’

‘Upon my honor, Captain.’

Two

The Widow Cobb

In the apothecary, Lucie was arranging small packages in the basket of a midwife whose hands were full with a fretting child. She glanced up as Owen entered the shop and motioned that she would join him in the workshop when finished. He paused to speak to the midwife, but the child regarded him with wide eyes, then began to cry. The patch. He whispered an apology and ducked through the beaded curtain into the workshop.

His son Jasper was standing over the larger mortar used for grinding stones of various sorts. He was just lifting a heavy pestle and then drove it down with a forceful thud. His years of archery and doing much of the heavy lifting of apothecary supplies had given him a strong upper body, but Owen knew the work of grinding stones too small for the grinding wheel was tedious at best, exhausting at worst. A few more thuds and Jasper set the pestle aside to drink something out of a bowl sitting up on a shelf, finally acknowledging Owen with a grin.

‘Honey water.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘So I don’t sneeze all the powder away. Any news about Tom?’

Owen was recounting what he’d learned when Lucie joined them, leaning against a table to listen.

‘Unsteady on her feet, gray-haired,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘I recall a woman like that at Sunday mass some weeks ago. She bumped into a woman holding a baby and would have knocked her down but for the woman standing beside the mother who caught and steadied her. I’ve not seen her again.’

Now that she mentioned it, Owen recalled the incident. ‘Slender, not tall, hollow-cheeked, haunted eyes. I remember.’ He hugged Lucie. ‘I knew I should confer with you before I go to Bess. Were she and Tom in church that day?’

‘I don’t know. They usually are.’

‘I remember them there,’ said Jasper. ‘Bess frowned over at her and tsked. But Tom … he looked upset, maybe uncomfortable that Bess was so quick to find fault.’

‘That would be like him,’ said Lucie. ‘Or he recognized the woman?’

‘I will ask Bess whether they spoke of her,’ said Owen.

Lucie took his arm. ‘A word in the garden. Jasper, would you watch the shop for a while?’

‘Gladly!’ He took off the apron and shook the stone dust out of his hair.

Outside, Lucie wrapped her cloak against the wind and sat down on the bench beneath the linden. Owen settled beside her, stretching out his legs.

‘A lot of walking today?’ she asked.

‘I feel as if I have covered the city.’ He put an arm round her shoulders, kissed her on the cheek. ‘You have something to say about all this that you didn’t want our son to hear?’

‘You know me well.’ She took his free hand. ‘Is it necessary to tell Bess about this before you are certain the woman is involved in Tom’s disappearance?’

‘She will hear of it, and I would rather tell her myself. No embellishments. Besides, I promised I would tell her of anything I learned.’

‘I know you’ve not told her of the unkind tales that are spreading.’

‘No, but—’

‘This might be another such. He may never have been there. And Bess will be wondering who the woman is, whether she was an old love, kin …’ Lucie touched his cheek. ‘Do you see?’

He did.

‘Tell me more about the incident at the gate, and outside Potter’s shop.’

While she listened, he noticed her growing increasingly uneasy, biting her bottom lip, glancing over toward the tavern next door, and when he had told her all of it she whispered, ‘Will she forgive me?’

‘Will who forgive you for what?’

She bowed her head and sighed as if forcing out some ill-favored spirit, then studied her shoes in silence for a long while. Just as Owen was about to ask again, she said, ‘Bess. For keeping Tom’s secret. He asked me to tell no one, and at the time I could see no harm in it. But now …’

Owen straightened and looked her in the eye. ‘What secret?’

She held up a hand. ‘He said a friend had twisted his wrist and cut his lip in a fight after drinking too much. He asked for salves for both and that I not tell Bess, she would want to know why the lout had not come to me himself.’ She nodded to Owen’s look of disbelief. ‘Today it struck me that this might be the very friend he’s busy helping, or who’s pulled him into trouble.’

‘You never mentioned anything, even after he disappeared. Days ago.’

‘I did not connect it.’ Her eyes pleaded.

‘How long ago?’

‘Last week. I think three or four days before he disappeared, no more than that. He came in just as I opened up so that Jasper could deliver a salve for a child.’

‘Tom was not injured?’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Quiet. I thought he blamed himself for serving the man more than he could handle. I said it was not his fault, the man should know his limit, and he nodded and shrugged. He said little while I measured out the salves. I refused his coin, of course, he’s family. When I handed them to him he thanked me and asked again that I say nothing of it to anyone, and then he left.’

‘To anyone, not just to Bess. So, not to me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see where he went afterward?’

‘No. Another customer entered as he was hurrying out. I should have said something to you, I know, but—’

‘I wish you had.’

She tilted her head. ‘Now I wonder. Was it the young man who had been beaten? Or did the one strong as an ox attack the widow and Tom tried to protect her?’

‘I need to keep a clear head, not decide that I know.’

Lucie glanced again toward the Merchets’ tavern. ‘Can Tom hold his own in a fight with such a man as Walter the gatekeeper described? He’s strong, but that strong?’ She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps it would not be a shock to Bess. She might know the woman, but did not know she was here.’

Owen sat back, trying to think how to proceed. He understood Lucie’s reticence, but if Bess knew the woman she might steer him away from a mistake – or toward an answer. ‘I need to know whether Bess knows the woman. And she deserves to hear all of this. You would expect anyone investigating my disappearance to share everything they learned with you as soon as might be.’

‘I would,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re right.’

‘I will go to her.’

‘I would like to come with you. She should hear my part from me.’

The tavern was quiet. Tom’s nephew Tupper, who usually served as groom and did the heavier chores, greeted Owen and Lucie at the door.

‘Dame Bess is in her chamber,’ he said, ‘working on accounts. You might just knock. But she was in a temper when she shut the door.’

Owen knocked gently.

‘Can I not have peace for a moment?’ Bess barked as she marched toward them and flung open the door. Her beribboned coif sat askew, fading red curls damp on her cheeks and eyes red.

‘Forgive us for intruding,’ said Owen, rethinking the urgency of his visit.

But one look at their faces and Bess stepped aside, waving them in, motioning to them to sit at the table, moving aside her tally sticks and other business items. ‘You have learned something of my Tom?’ Her voice was soft now, her eyes pleading as she took a seat.

Owen looked to Lucie, who motioned for him to go first. A good idea as he expected her part to spark anger.

Prefacing his account by saying he could not be certain of any of it, but it seemed to fit a pattern, Owen told Bess what he had learned that day – the woman, the younger man, what Potter overheard, Tom’s departure from Walmgate Bar, and the man following him. He was careful to keep his voice even, with a hint of doubt in it.

‘Leading a horse? Carrying a pack? I don’t like the sound of that. The widow Cobb.’ She frowned up at the ceiling, shook her head. ‘I recall no one by that name.’ She looked to Lucie as if wondering why she had accompanied Owen.

‘His description of the woman made Jasper think of an incident at mass a while ago,’ said Lucie. ‘The woman who bumped into a mother holding her infant. Do you remember?’

‘That woman. Of course.’ Bess’s eyes shone with sudden tears. ‘I remember Tom’s look. He knew her.’ A sharp nod. ‘She’s the one. She must be.’

‘We cannot be sure,’ said Owen.

‘It sounds so to me,’ said Bess.

Too late to question whether sharing all this was wise, and Bess had every right to hear it. ‘Do you think Tom knew her?’ Owen asked. ‘Did he speak of her?’

‘No. Not a word about it, and I’d forgotten it until you mentioned that morning.’ She glanced away, frowning. ‘How could I forget that look? It was about that time that someone was digging the holes, remember?’

‘Your yard, near the gate to the Fenton’s garden. And in their yard as well.’

‘Just beyond the fence,’ said Bess. ‘And in the alley by their yard. One of our customers sprained an ankle stumbling into that hole. Tom was quiet about that, too. Not like him.’

They had never caught whoever was digging the holes, all happening at night. Lucie had allowed the children out to search the garden in the mornings, a game to them, a worry for her. But their garden had not been touched.

‘I doubt the woman in the church was the one digging in the dark,’ said Owen.

‘Of course not. I’m guessing you think she’s the widow Cobb.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Owen.

‘There is something else.’ Lucie told her of Tom’s visit to the apothecary, and her promise to him, softening her voice more and more as Bess’s face lit up with anger. ‘I regret my promise.’

‘Now you regret it? I counted you a friend. Even a sister. And you kept this from me when I could not sleep for worry?’ Bess put a hand to her mouth and turned aside, breathing hard.

‘Tom is my good friend as well,’ Lucie said. ‘I did not think it unlikely, the tale he told.’

Owen kept his counsel, sitting back and studying the bed chamber. Good light from a window facing the kitchen yard and an old yew tree with a twisted trunk. Brightly colored wall hangings and curtains round the bed added to the cheer. Which was sorely lacking in all gathered round the table.

‘As if I would ever chide him for helping a friend,’ Bess muttered as she jerked her shoulder away from Lucie’s touch. ‘You’ve told me now. I thank you for that. I would speak more with Owen, but it’s best you leave before I say something better left unsaid.’

‘I was wrong, Bess,’ Lucie said as she rose, shaking her head at Owen when he would follow.

The door shut, Bess turned back to Owen, her face red but her breathing steady. ‘What do you think is happening?’

‘I wish I knew. Lucie thought that the man might have attacked the woman and Tom tried to protect her.’

‘From the ox? Who is he? Her husband?’ Bess studied her hands. ‘Mayhap she ran from the brute, he found her, beat her, and Tom nursed her, and now is trying to lure him away? It’s something he might do, my Tom.’ Again her eyes welled with tears.

Her construction did sound like the Tom Owen thought he knew, except that he could not imagine that Tom lying to Bess, not about anything serious. And the situation might be quite another thing. ‘It’s a tale woven out of threads connecting things that might be separate incidents,’ he warned.

‘He’s behaved strangely for a while now. Wanting me to brew, then teaching my Mary when I told him I could not do all that needs doing and take on the brewing as well. Oh, that is hurtful. My Mary came here to grieve for her husband and he put her to work. Then he risks us all to save this woman.’ Tears, an impatient sigh.

Owen tried to steer her toward what they could know. ‘How has he spent his time?’

‘Cutting wood, making repairs, serving customers, cleaning tankards, and disappearing for long stretches now and then, but always back for meals and bed. Until Sunday night.’ She dabbed her eyes with her apron. ‘Is she his mistress?’

Owen laughed without thinking.

‘You might not see it,’ said Bess. ‘But she had a look about her as if she might be handsome with more food and no beatings. Yet the way she moved …’ She reached over to take Owen’s hand. ‘Might he have once loved her and now he wishes to help? Could he not tell me because he feared I would be jealous?’

He held her hand in both of his. ‘She may have nothing to do with Tom. I don’t even know for certain that Potter is right in saying the older man was Tom. I need facts, not theories.’

‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

So did he.

‘The young man Potter mentioned. Who was that? And why did he speak of Jules?’

‘I have a memory of Tom mentioning a Julian. Was he called Jules? Did you know him?’

‘That is what he called him, but no, I never knew him. He was Tom’s partner in the tavern at first. They parted ways when Tom found him thieving on the side. Gave him all his savings to get him gone. Perhaps he’s returned to get more.’ She withdrew her hand and stood. ‘Well.’ She shook her head, the ribbons on her white coif bouncing. ‘Best thing for it is work. Much to be done. Try some of Mary’s latest brew before you leave. She is coming close to his quality. Not as good, yet, but quite satisfactory.’ She stopped halfway to the door. ‘Now that might be important. We are working from an old piece of parchment, a simple recipe written in one hand, with additions by Tom. I know his hand, of course, I helped him improve it when we were first wed. When I asked who wrote the original he said he did not know.’

‘His partner?’

‘He never said. It’s worthless without Tom’s additions, too simple for any self-respecting brewer.’

‘Do you know any more about Jules?’

‘No. I don’t even know his full name. And like I said, I never met him. Tom speaks of him as if he’s dead. Dead to him, at least.’ As Owen joined her at the door Bess put a hand on his chest and looked up at him. ‘I want a report every evening. Sooner if it’s important. Can you promise me that?’

‘As long as I’m here, yes.’

‘You’re not going away?’

‘If I leave the city in search of Tom I cannot report to you until I return.’

‘Of course. Yes. I can ask for no more.’ Bess opened the door. ‘I should forgive Lucie.’

‘That is between the two of you.’

After the midday meal Owen stood in the kitchen doorway watching his sons in the garden. Young Hugh was keen to join his father and brother at the butts on Sunday afternoons, when Owen trained the men of the city in archery and Jasper assisted him. His older brother had agreed to begin the eight-year-old’s training by helping him develop the strength needed, just as Owen had taught Jasper years ago.

‘Hold the stick at shoulder height, arm straight,’ said Jasper.

Sunlight turned Hugh’s coppery hair into a halo. He bit down on his lower lip and squinted as if it might impart strength while he shifted from one foot to the other.

‘Don’t fidget.’

It brought back memories of the intensity with which Jasper practiced when he was not much older than Hugh. Owen left the yard with a smile and a prayer that his fiery-haired son never went to war.

On Coney Street, Owen passed the shadowed alleyway in which Alfred watched the widow Cobb’s lodging and signaled for him to follow, not turning around to see if he had until beneath Ouse Bridge, out of sight of Moor’s tenement. Alfred was not far behind.

‘No sign of her,’ he said. ‘What did Walter the gatekeeper have to say?’

Owen told him all he had learned. ‘I would like you to ask anyone you see going into houses nearby whether they saw or heard anything unusual Sunday night. Might have been earlier, but I think it more likely after dark.’

‘The ox beating the young man? Or the woman?’

‘Do not guide your questions to that end. Anything might be helpful. And ask if any of their neighbors has been absent since then. Not to point the finger at the woman.’

‘I can do that, Captain.’

‘I will be at the York this evening awaiting your report.’

Gwen frowned in concentration as she measured out the fine powder and tipped it onto the piece of waxed parchment.

Careful, controlled. Lucie smiled. ‘I am well pleased with your work.’

Gwen took a deep breath, as if she’d been holding it in fear of making a serious mistake. Heart aching for her earnest child, Lucie gently touched her cheek. ‘Be at ease, my love. You have far exceeded anything I might have expected of you after so few months of training.’

Instead of a relieved smile, Gwen looked troubled.

‘What is it?’

‘Jasper said we hold people’s lives in our hands in all that we do.’

Lucie knelt to her eldest daughter and took her hands. ‘That is true. And it is why until you are confident either Jasper or I will watch over you whenever you are measuring and dispensing. As I did for him. That is the purpose of being an apprentice.’

‘Am I an apprentice?’

‘Not officially, eleven is still too young. But I have informed the guild of your interest, and how proud I am about how you have embraced this work.’ Her sweet child was growing up so quickly. ‘Jasper and your da are also proud of you.’ Lucie held her close until she felt her relax in her arms. Sweet heaven, she should have guessed Gwen would take all this to heart.

The garden door opened, letting in a draft. ‘Oh! Forgive me for interrupting.’ Bess hesitated in the doorway.

After their difficult parting hours earlier, Lucie did not want to send Bess away. She kissed Gwen on the cheek. ‘Time for you to take your ease, my love. Go play with Hugh and Emma.’

‘I come bearing gifts.’ Bess held out a basket to Gwen. ‘Cook made your favorite seed cake today. Share some with your little brother and sister, and save some for Jasper.’

‘Seed cake!’ Gwen hung her apron on a hook, gave Bess a hug, and hurried out the garden door with the basket.

Lucie smiled at the change in her daughter’s mood. ‘You know the way to their hearts.’

With tears in her eyes, Bess said, ‘And, through them, to yours, I hope. I should have been glad that you helped Tom, not accused you of betraying me. Can you forgive me?’

‘There is nothing to forgive. I should have told you about it when Tom disappeared.’ Lucie held out her hand. ‘Come to the kitchen. We can watch their raptures over the cake.’

The cacophony of voices in the York Tavern hit Owen as he entered after the long day. He welcomed the busyness, glad that the Merchets’ loyal customers stayed with them in their troubles – though how many of them came out of charity or loyalty, and how many curiosity, hoping to hear the latest gossip about Tom’s absence, he could not know.

He had just settled at his usual table in the back corner when Bess’s daughter Mary approached with a tankard. With her bright copper hair and ready smile she was a younger version of her mother, including the direct gaze that he had once found disconcerting in Bess – when he’d had something to hide.

‘I remembered something that might be important,’ she said.

‘Every little bit is helpful. Join me?’

Mary perched on the seat next to him. ‘It was at the baker’s oven on Colliergate, I think a week before Tom disappeared. A woman, not as old as Ma but with silver in her hair, missing a tooth up front, waited by the side, and I noticed she seemed to lose her footing when people moved about her, holding out her arms to keep her balance. Someone called out to her, the name Helena, and she shushed them and looked round the crowd fearfully. I was not at church the morning Ma saw the clumsy woman she thinks is the one Tom might know, but I wondered.’

It sounded like the widow. Was her name Helena Cobb? ‘Did you see who called out to her?’

‘No. Morning at the baker’s there’s such a crowd and I still don’t know so many.’

‘Did you watch her walk away?’

‘No. I’m sorry I’m not more help. I’d collected my order and hastened back. But I can tell you she was buying two loaves of bread, more than one woman might eat.’

‘That is helpful. And we may now have her full name. You’d not seen her there before?’

‘Cook or Ma usually go, but that morning they were busy. I will ask Cook. Ma would have told you if she’d seen her.’ She looked round, shook her head. ‘Isn’t it strange how Ma refuses to use her cooks’ names? But I don’t argue. And none of them have ever seemed to mind.’ She laughed. ‘I should see to the crowd. Does my heart good to be busy.’

Owen purposely took a long drink of the ale. She watched with apprehension.

‘Excellent brew.’ He smiled. And he meant it.

‘Oh bless you, Captain.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’ The bailiff George Hempe took the seat Mary vacated. ‘She reminds me of her mother when she first came to York. All the men’s heads would turn as Bess passed. But oh how she talked back and snapped a rag in any man’s face who was too bold.’ He sighed. ‘I do not like to see her in pain.’

‘Nor I.’

They were interrupted by Alfred’s arrival, tankard in hand, taking his seat with a sigh of relief. ‘I’ve been standing all the day.’ He removed his hat and raked his fingers through his long-lost hair. ‘Glad to sit down.’

Remembering his injury some months ago, Owen silently cursed. ‘I’ll put Ned on it tomorrow.’ Younger, and a good man.

‘I’d as lief stay on it. I need to harden my body all over again, that is all.’ Alfred took a sip of ale. ‘By God, Mary’s done it.’ He grinned and took a longer drink, then set the tankard aside. ‘So this woman I am watching for, she appears to have arrived about two months back, and since then she’s had more than a few visitors. All men, some young, some old, one with stained clothing – he’s of middling age, or so thinks one of the neighbors. But another said he’s young, which I’m inclined to believe, she having more of a description, light brown hair, pleasant face. A few of them were worried she’s a whore, but more than half believe she’s a widow fending off suitors.’

‘The young ones are suitors?’ Owen doubted that. ‘Do they refer to her as Helena?’

Alfred shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of her as Helena. Mostly the widow Cobb. But a young man called her Claire. He said she paid him for errands and a shopkeeper asked if it was for Dame Claire. When Matt – that’s the young man – said, “For the widow Cobb”, the shopkeeper nodded. Matt’s the only one who reported that.’

‘I want to talk to him.’

Alfred grinned. ‘I knew you would. He’s coming to the apothecary in the morning.’

‘Did you see her?’

‘No. Seems she’s not been around for some days. Since Sunday, the sempster down below said.’ When Tom disappeared. ‘But Saturday night several heard an argument, loud, with thumps and a woman crying out in pain and anger. And the next night another argument, though only men’s voices. Two, they thought.’

‘You’re a good listener,’ said Hempe.

‘What changed since earlier today?’ Owen wondered aloud. ‘Why are people talking now?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Alfred. ‘Mid-afternoon it was like how sometimes the spiders come bursting out, crawling all round. My little ones showed me that about spiders.’

‘Like spiders,’ said Hempe, chuckling.

Alfred blushed and ducked his head into his tankard.

‘Our children are more observant than we are, it’s true,’ said Owen.

‘They are!’ Alfred grinned at him.

‘Hm …’ Hempe tapped his wide, well-groomed fingers on his tankard as he stared into the distance. ‘Word about trouble gets out, people take a while to think how it could spread to them?’

Owen told them the rest of what he’d learned through the day.

‘I don’t like how this investigation is growing,’ said Hempe. ‘It’s not just Tom missing now. A woman with two names, one she wants no one to hear. A man following Tom. A young man thinking he and Tom are in danger. Arguments and perhaps a beating and a fight. Nasty smell to it.’ His companions nodded. ‘I’m wondering if it has anything to do with the spate of recent burglaries.’

Owen sat forward. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘They’re not the type of crimes we usually report to you as captain.’

That was true. ‘How long?’

‘A few months, maybe a bit less.’ Hempe tapped his tankard. ‘As far as we know, the widow has no obvious work.’

‘And all the men going in and out,’ said Alfred. ‘Could be bringing her the goods.’

‘I want to know about anything unusual in the city going forward, until we resolve this,’ said Owen.

‘You will,’ Hempe promised.

Three

Tragedy

At dawn a river mist crept over the city. Bess slipped away and down Coney Street confident that a figure moving through the mist with hood pulled low over the face would not seem out of place. She must be quick, before the lodgers began moving about and Mary looked for her. The widow Cobb, or Helena Cobb if Mary had heard right, lived on Coney Street, an upper-story lodging, and Bess thought she knew just the place, up above a sempster who sometimes mended the tavern bed linens. Keeping her head low – everyone in this part of the city knew her and she did not want Owen to hear she had done this, not unless she learned something important – she paused in the shadows of the jutting stories where she could see Owen’s man Stephen tucked into a dark alley across the way. When a sound farther down the street distracted him she hurried to the alleyway and climbed the steps. On the first story landing she put her ear to the nearest door. A baby crying. She tiptoed to the next. Silence. Tried the latch. The door swung open and a sickly sweet odor assailed her, causing her to step back and suck in the fresher air as her mind caught up, recognizing the stench of blood. Go in or fetch Stephen? She had come all this way. Once he came she would be shooed away and all this would be for naught. Besides, someone might need help. She would check and then report to him. Steeling herself she entered, stopping a few steps in to adjust to the dark room.

A man lay on the floor in a pool of blood. She moved closer. His throat was torn from ear to ear. God in heaven. She fell to her knees, sobbing. It was not Tom, God be thanked, but a young man, a sweet-faced lad she knew, Matt, who did errands for many in the parish. Belatedly remembering the murderer might be lurking, she bowed low and peered farther into the chamber, watching for movement, holding her breath, listening. No one. She was alone. She rose, stumbling to lean in the doorway to breathe in the chilly air. She did not want to retch.

‘Our Lord have mercy.’

Startled, she spun round, feeling weak in the knees when she saw it was Stephen. ‘God be praised, I am glad to see you,’ she said. He was a large man, known for his strength, a comforting presence in the circumstances.

‘The captain will not like this,’ he said. ‘And what are you doing here, Dame Bess? How did you get past my watch?’

‘Oh Stephen.’ She fell against him, sobbing. He patted her shoulder and it only made the tears come faster. Sweet Matt, a gentle young man. Such a terrible death. Stop it. Stop this sniveling now. Stand up straight and do your duty, Bess Merchet. Pushing away she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a corner of her cloak.

‘Are you all right, Dame Bess?’

She felt guilty for making him look as if he had not been keeping his eyes on the tenement. ‘Forgive me for sneaking past you. Will you watch him while I rouse the captain?’

‘Course I will. But you look spent. Can you walk back by yourself?’

‘Yes. Yes, it was just … That poor lad. Matt, that’s his name. Does errands for many around here. Did.’ She dabbed her eyes with her cloak. ‘A sweet lad. Shall I tell Owen it was you who found him?’

‘Truth is always best. He’ll know if you’re hiding something and we don’t want that.’

With one last glance at the horror, Bess crept down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone and cause more of a stir. But by the time she’d reached the bottom, Maud the sempster was in her doorway.

‘Bess? What brings you here? Is it the widow? Has she come to you asking advice about her suitors?’

Bess put a finger to her lips, shook her head, and hurried off.

Owen stopped a lad on the street and told him to fetch the coroner to the lodging on Coney Street. ‘Tell him I will meet him there.’

Back in the house, Bess sat beside Lucie at the table in the hall.

‘My Tom,’ Bess sobbed, ‘what has happened to him?’

Lucie looked to Owen. ‘Are we certain Tom knew this woman?’

‘Nothing is certain but that a young man named Matt was murdered in her lodging, and that he had spoken to Alfred yesterday and meant to come to me this morning. Whether Tom had anything to do with her we don’t yet know.’ An ugly business, getting uglier all the time. Owen put a hand on Bess’s shoulder. ‘I will take care of this. Stay here until I return.’

Bess lifted her head and wiped her eyes. ‘Mary will be hearing about this in the tavern.’

‘Jasper will tell her that you are here, and safe,’ said Lucie, meeting Owen’s eyes, nodding.

‘I will talk to Jasper on my way.’

‘I cannot stay here,’ said Bess. ‘I have a tavern to run.’

The slump in her shoulders suggested she was not ready to face the gossips. ‘I will need to talk to you when I return,’ Owen said. ‘It’s possible the coroner will as well. You don’t want all that happening at the tavern.’

‘Even so … No, no, you are right. I need no audience.’ Bess reached a hand out to him. ‘I did not mean to cause trouble. But I could not simply sit and wait.’

In truth she had done him a favor, finding the body so early. But he did not want to encourage her to continue her own investigating. ‘If you’d been hurt I wouldn’t forgive myself, Bess. Nor would Tom forgive me.’

‘He would understand.’

Owen would not even try to guess what Tom might think.

By the time he was heading out the door, Owen was joined by Alfred, who was angry with himself for not bringing Matt with him to the tavern the previous evening. ‘But he said his mother was unwell and he liked to spend the evenings with her.’

Which begged the question about how the young man had come to be murdered in the widow’s lodgings during the night, or shortly after dawn. ‘I will talk to his mother,’ said Owen. He left Alfred in the garden for a moment while going into the apothecary workroom.

Jasper was just coming down from his lodgings above the shop to open for the day, his fair hair askew and an imprint of a wrinkled pillow on one cheek.

‘I need you to go to the tavern and tell Mary that her mother is at our house and will be there awhile.’

‘You found Tom, Da?’ Jasper was still waking up, pushing his hair out of his eyes and rolling his shoulders.

‘Not so fortunate.’ Owen told him what Bess had discovered.

His son’s face went from sleepy to fast awake. ‘Poor Bess. Matt, you say? From Davygate?’

‘You knew him?’

‘He comes in now and then to pick things up for people. Came. I admired how hard he worked to make sense of things.’

‘Of what things?’

‘Everything. He was like a child, but he was the eldest, and the only son, his da long gone, his ma not well, and he did what he could to provide for them and protect them. He was strong. Helped me lift a heavy barrel once and I swear I hardly touched it. It’s awful that someone murdered him. He was no threat to anyone.’

‘I didn’t know.’ The death took on a new meaning for Owen. He must find out who violently took the life of such an innocent. ‘Thank you for telling me about him.’

‘I’ll walk out with you. Should I tell Mary what Bess found?’

‘If you can do it without others hearing.’

‘I’ll find a way. Go, see what you need to see.’ Jasper greeted Alfred and walked through the garden gate with them, then broke away for the tavern.

Owen told Alfred what Jasper had said about Matt.

‘Worse and worse. Someone might have overheard me talking to the lad. We were just off the street in the alley. I kept asking him to lower his voice, but he didn’t. And I didn’t explain his danger.’ Alfred bowed his head. ‘God help me, I am responsible.’

‘No. The murderer is. And you will help me find him.’

‘I will, Captain. I will.’ Alfred squared his shoulders as they rounded the corner into Coney Street.

A small crowd clustered near the steps to the lodging, women interrupted in their morning chores, carrying baskets of bread or holding brooms, the few men looking as if they had dressed in haste. Stephen stood glaring down at them from up top, his meaty arms folded over his chest, legs wide, ready to move at the first sign of trouble.

‘Captain Archer! They say there’s been a murder.’

‘Young Matt, they say.’

‘Did that woman do it?’

How had they heard of it? The lad fetching the coroner? Owen held up his hands. ‘Go on about your day, all of you. We need this space cleared. If you get in the way it’s a night in the castle prison, down deep beneath the river.’

The people glanced round at one another, then scattered, leaving a young woman standing, arms crossed like Stephen’s, mouth set, eyes challenging, despite being a slip of a thing, and her clothes worn and patched, holes in her boots. He hadn’t noticed her before.

‘Matt’s my big brother,’ she said. ‘I have a right to see him.’

She could be helpful. Bess might be wrong, it might not be Matt. ‘From what I heard, it will not be an easy thing to look on.’

‘I’ve seen my share of butchering, Captain Archer.’

Her quiet dignity impressed him. She was a few years older than his Gwen, he guessed, but with a self-possession few adults achieved.

‘It would help to know for certain that it is your brother.’

‘I fear it must be. He did not come home yesterday evening. I came out to search for him this morning and found the people here, heard what they were saying.’ Her voice trembled, but she squared her shoulders. ‘Let me see if it is him.’

‘Do not touch anything. I’ve not yet examined him or the room.’

‘I understand.’

Owen turned to Alfred. ‘Wait down here for the coroner, then direct him up. And if anyone else comes to look, find out where they heard of it.’ As he led the way he asked the young woman her name.

‘Sarah. Thank you for trusting me, Captain.’

At the top of the steps Stephen moved out of their way. ‘The couple in the first lodging have a fretful bairn,’ he said. ‘I gave the father leave to fetch something from the apothecary for the wee one.’

Owen had not noticed anyone waiting for the shop to open. ‘How long ago?’

‘Just moments before you appeared. You must have passed him.’

Might have been the one who spread the news. Owen nodded. ‘This is Sarah. She believes the victim is her brother Matt and wishes to make certain.’

‘God be with you, mistress,’ said Stephen. ‘I pray you are wrong and your brother safe.’

Owen went forward, opening the door with care. Behind him, a muffled cough. The stench was strong. He glanced about the dim chamber – a bowl and a jug on a shelf by the empty bed, an overturned stool in another corner, nothing on the hooks inside the door. The widow Cobb either had no clothing but that on her back, as the landlord had guessed, or she had packed up and left. Motioning Sarah in, Owen warned her, ‘There is much blood.’ Though it was already soaking into the wood and drying on the young man’s clothing, the stench remained. He would guess the body had lain there since sometime in the night.

‘Oh.’ She held a hand to her mouth. ‘Matt, no! What have they done? Mother in heaven,’ she moaned, ‘my dear, sweet brother.’ She turned to Owen, her eyes wide, unseeing.

He held her, saying nothing, knowing words could not help her shattered heart. When at last she moved away she was dry-eyed, her jaw set. For now. He drew her out onto the landing. ‘The air is better out here. Would you like Stephen to walk you home?’

‘I can …’ She stopped, gave a little nod. She was so young for such a terrible loss.

‘I would like to call later. To learn more about your brother’s work for the woman who has lodged here these last months.’

‘I will try to remember all he said about her. When will we have Matt, to wash him and … prepare him for burial?’ Her voice trembled.

‘I hope no later than tomorrow.’

She nodded. ‘Bless you, Captain.’

He motioned for Stephen. ‘Take Mistress Sarah home, would you? And keep the crowd away from her. Then hasten back, just for a short while. I know it’s time you ended your watch.’

‘I will be back, and you can count on me for some hours yet.’

Returning to the chamber, Owen knelt as close as he might without disturbing the bloodstain and examined the young man’s face, closing his lids, leaning close to smell his mouth. Difficult to distinguish anything over the strong scents of blood and urine. Moving on to the shelf, he sniffed the bowl, and then the jug. He detected something odd about the watery ale. These he would bring to Lucie. If she agreed about the ale, he would ask her to examine the corpse.

‘I saw a young woman being led away. Was she the murderer?’ The coroner Gerard Burnby stood in the doorway, a self-important man with a perpetual sneer as if he could no longer remove the stench of death from his nostrils.

‘No. The victim’s sister, who offered to verify that it was him. I would say he died long before dawn.’

‘And it was Bess Merchet of the York Tavern who raised the hue and cry?’

‘It was. She came straight to my home to report it. I told her to stay there until I returned.’

‘She should be here.’

‘That is unnecessary.’

‘I want her here.’

‘To what end?’

‘That is the law.’

‘And I am captain of the city. I ask again, to what end? She is in my home. You are welcome to attend her there. It is not far.’

After some muttered nonsense, Burnby leaned close to the body, reached out to touch the already cooling skin, and declared Matt dead. His scrivener scratched the information on a wax tablet.

‘Has anything been moved since Dame Bess discovered the body?’ Burnby asked.

‘My man Stephen made certain no one entered the room until I arrived. I closed his lids,’ said Owen.

‘That will do, then.’ With a nod, Burnby departed, not even waiting for his scrivener.

‘May God take him swiftly home,’ the scrivener whispered, crossing himself. ‘He was a gentle youth, and kind. I pray you make haste to find his murderer, Captain.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Only as a neighborhood lad who worked for a few coins. His ma is a widow bringing up four children without much help. Matt, the eldest and the only son, ever seemed a child. The girls protected him. Ellen, the mother, fell ill right after her last child and never seemed to recover. She does her best for them but … We all help out as we can.’

‘What happened to her husband?’

‘Gone? Dead? I don’t recall. I must go now, Captain, catch up with Master Gerard.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

Down below, Alfred reported that the few coming by had heard it from others who’d heard it from others.

Too many now to question. It might have just been the lad. Or the father heading to the apothecary.

Jasper stood in the apothecary doorway handing a heavy basket to a customer’s son to carry, his mother already burdened with full baskets. ‘We could deliver this,’ he said. But the lad, though red-faced, told him there was no need.

Following Jasper inside, Owen asked about the customer Stephen had mentioned.

‘A father come for something to soothe a baby’s gums? Yes, he was waiting at the door when I opened it,’ said Jasper. ‘He mentioned something about trouble in the lodging next to him, and he thanked me for being quick, his wife was frightened with him away.’

At least Stephen hadn’t let the murderer escape.

‘Why are you carrying a jug and a bowl?’ Jasper asked.

‘To see whether your mother agrees there’s more than ale in this.’ Owen held the jug up for Jasper to sniff.

‘Smells like weak ale. And … There is something else. A foul scent.’

‘Is your ma in the workroom?’

‘In the house.’

In the kitchen, Lucie gestured toward the bowl and jug. ‘From the lodging?’

‘I wanted you to examine them.’ Owen set them on the edge of the table where Kate was gathering the children’s breakfast.

Kate bent to sniff, made a face. ‘That’s not Merchet ale.’

Lucie agreed. She tipped a cloth into the jug and lifted it to the light from the window. ‘Nothing obvious. I’ll take it to the workshop.’ She gathered the items and departed.

Owen settled by the kitchen fire with Bess, who had Emma beside her doing cats’ cradles with string.

‘Burnby was satisfied,’ he said. ‘You won’t need to talk to him.’

‘Bless you. I cannot bear that man.’

‘Burn bee. Burned a bee,’ Emma sang to herself as she fingered the string.

Bess kissed her cheek. ‘Best not to say too much right now. I promise to stay here until we can talk.’

‘I can talk!’ Emma chirped. ‘Brother Michaelo is in the garden,’ she said it as if reciting a verse, ‘and now he’s at the door!’ She laughed at a knock on the door and tried to clap with her fingers entwined in the string puzzle, collapsing in giggles.

Bess and Owen laughed despite themselves.

‘Welcome, my friend,’ Owen said as he opened the door.

Michaelo bowed and stepped in. ‘I thought you might need my assistance with the search for Tom and the recent death in Coney Street.’

Glancing at his daughter, Owen hurried the monk through the kitchen and into the hall. ‘Emma is too curious.’ He imagined the five-year-old singing about Matt’s death, unaware of the horror of her subject.

Michaelo perched at the edge of the settle and leaned toward the fire, rubbing his long-fingered hands together. ‘If I am not mistaken, we will see snow in a few hours. Winter is not ready to give way.’ He sat back. ‘Tell me all I need to know about this murder.’

Owen was grateful to have him involved. Brother Michaelo spent his evenings working with the poor who camped in the minster yard and thus heard gossip to which Owen had no access.

Having listened to the account, Michaelo offered a morsel from one of the poor who’d been late scuttling off this morning. ‘Matt did what he could with his limited abilities. A good lad, liked by all. Some thought his mother might spare him, that she and her daughters could take in more mending, laundry. But the lad was proud of helping the family. He was bullied by some, mostly those around his age. It did not keep him from doing what he could.’

‘Difficult to stomach the brutal murder of such as him.’

Brother Michaelo bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘I will offer extra prayers for his soul, and ask one of the chantry priests to say a mass for him, invite the family.’

‘I would be glad of that.’

‘What is next?’

Owen pulled his mind back to the tasks before him. ‘I hope to hear from Lucie whether the ale was poisoned. If so, I want her to examine the corpse.’

Brother Michaelo rose, shaking out his impeccably tidy Benedictine habit. ‘To the apothecary.’

‘There is an odd scent to it,’ said Lucie. ‘It might just be mildewed barley. Or valerian, though why anyone would add a sleep powder to ale …’

‘So the customer would not care about the taste,’ said Bess, who had insisted on accompanying Owen and Michaelo. ‘It’s clearly not Tom’s ale. Nor Mary’s.’

‘Do you want me to examine Matt in case it is something more?’ Lucie asked Owen.

He was thinking about valerian, how Matt might have tried the ale, been overcome by drowsiness, and laid down on the bed. Or the floor. Was that the purpose? To incapacitate someone? And then kill him? ‘It could be helpful. But I hesitate to ask.’

‘And so I offered.’ Lucie brushed off her hands, shook out her skirts. ‘I will come now.’

‘Might I be of use?’ Bess asked.

‘I prefer that you stay in our house today,’ said Owen.

‘I feel foolish. I cannot hide from my customers forever.’

‘Just this day, until I return and have time to talk to you,’ said Owen, ‘and to allow the gossip rippling through the city to calm a little. I would spare you being badgered with questions you cannot answer.’

‘You will tell me all you’ve heard so far?’

‘I will.’

With a nod, Bess left the workshop, turning back to the house.

‘Ready?’ Owen asked Lucie.

‘Best wear this,’ said Michaelo, handing her the fur-lined cloak hanging by the workshop door.

‘That is heavy for March.’

‘Snow is coming.’

Lucie leaned close, sniffing Matt’s lips. ‘Might I put my finger in his mouth?’

Owen knelt. ‘It might be difficult to open.’

‘I’ve no need to force his jaw. I mean to check just inside his lips. Yes?’ When he nodded she lifted the blue-gray upper lip, slid a finger along the teeth, and sat back, sniffing her finger. ‘He drank some of the ale.’ She bent to examine his clothes.

‘There. On his chest,’ said Michaelo, his voice muffled by the scented cloth he held to his mouth and nose. ‘See the stain?’

Lucie touched the cloth, sniffed, then moved to a sleeve, sniffing there. ‘He spilled some.’

Owen was looking at the boy’s worn boots. ‘I think he stepped in it as well.’

Michaelo crossed over to the shelf. ‘Is this where you found the bowl and jug?’

Owen joined him, crouching to examine the floor. It was far enough that the blood had not reached it, and he felt something sticky. ‘Came in and sampled what was on the shelf. Drowsiness took him and he spilled it as he sank down?’

‘Or someone surprised him and he lost his grip,’ said Michaelo.

‘Now who is making up tales?’ Lucie said softly. ‘I will take the jug to Magda. She might notice something else.’

They both often consulted the healer. ‘Have you the time?’ Owen asked.

‘There is always time for Magda, and to help you in your work.’ Lucie rose. ‘Now go on, you have much to do.’

Matt’s family lived in a pair of rooms off an alley on Davygate, the rooms dark and damp, being on the ground floor, though the one window looked out onto a garden across the way.

Owen and Brother Michaelo expressed their condolences to Goodwife Ellen and Sarah, who had identified her brother. Two younger girls worked quietly in a corner sorting clothing, perhaps for mending.

Sarah set a bench for the visitors to share close to the window, which gave a meager light. A fire burned fitfully in a brazier in the center of the room where the widow Ellen sat on a stool as she spun wool. Her hands were chapped, the knuckles swollen, but her movements were practiced and smooth. She showed little sign of being unwell, and for a long while, no more than the wear caused by hard work and damp lodgings. A difficult life, but the scrivener had Owen expecting a woman crippled or bedridden.

As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I am grateful to have a good day, able to work. You must think me heartless, but it would be all the worse when my heart is so heavy to be unable to keep my hands busy.’

‘Your son would not wish you to feel unwell,’ said Brother Michaelo. ‘By all accounts he was a loving son, devoted to you.’

‘My son,’ Ellen moaned. She dropped her spindle and covered her face with her hands, bowing low with grief.

Sarah offered them small bowls of ale, a gesture Owen knew better than to refuse, though they clearly could ill afford it.

‘You are most generous,’ he said, ‘even as we intrude on your mourning. I wish it were not necessary.’

‘We understand,’ said Sarah. ‘I told Mother you would come. Do ask your questions. We want to help you find out who murdered Matt.’ Her voice almost gave way on the last words, but she held her dignity, as she had earlier. ‘You asked what Matt did for the widow Cobb, and I’ve tried to recall. He said he fetched things for her.’

‘From shops?’

‘I would think so. He would be away a long while. But we did not press him.’ A little shrug. ‘She paid him well.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Owen asked softly.

Ellen glanced up, wiped her eyes. ‘Yesterday, in the afternoon. The light was just beginning to fade.’

‘Where was he going?’

‘He said he had errands to do. I did not ask more. He did small jobs for a number of people.’

‘Could you give us a list of them?’

‘I fear I cannot. We were always after him to make some record, but it was quite beyond him,’ said Ellen.

‘I can tell you those I knew of,’ said Sarah. As she listed a number of people in the general area the younger ones pitched in with additional names. Brother Michaelo asked for clarification a few times as he recorded them, thanking them for their patience. No one they mentioned stood out to Owen. Ordinary people, neighbors, some living alone, others perhaps hiring him as a way to help the family.

He thanked them. ‘Have you any notion where he was after dark?’

‘No,’ said Ellen. ‘I was so worried. He looked a strong lad, and he was, but gentle, and slow to recognize those who meant him harm.’

‘Did anyone in particular give him trouble?’

‘He would never say.’

‘He sometimes came home with injuries?’

‘Yes. Black eyes, split lips, bloodied knees, his clothes torn and his hat lost,’ said Sarah in a tight voice. ‘I think most of it was boys who knew they could best him. But sometimes it seemed more. He feared we would suffer if he tattled.’

‘Did you have any male kin to defend him?’

‘I am a widow, Captain. Some years now. The pestilence,’ Ellen whispered. ‘And no, no kin in the city.’

‘But it was bullying, Captain, not anything that could lead to …’ Sarah took a deep breath. ‘What they did to him.’

That she knew of. He might have seen something, heard something, and been silenced. Owen rose, thanking them for their time, assuring them that Matt’s body would be with them as soon as possible.

‘I will pray for his soul,’ said Brother Michaelo. ‘And have a mass said in his memory. If you would wish to attend …’

Ellen reached out to touch Michaelo’s habit as she wept. ‘I would,’ she managed.

Sarah rose to escort them to the door. ‘You are so kind, Dom Michaelo,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Remember me in your prayers, Mistress Sarah,’ he said, bowing and stepping out the door.

‘If you think of anything, hear anything, please leave word in my wife’s apothecary,’ said Owen.

Outside, he said, ‘That was kind of you.’

‘I am gathering merit for my absolution,’ said Michaelo.

Four

Thieves

Lucie and Magda had sat at the worktable for a long while comparing the usual poisons to the scent in the jug of ale from the widow’s lodging. Suddenly Magda lifted the jug and poured some into a fresh cup. She sipped.

‘Magda, no!’ Lucie plucked the cup from the white-haired woman’s hand.

‘Nothing more than ale brewed with moldy barley. And valerian.’

Lucie breathed out in relief.

‘Thou shouldst trust thy judgment.’

‘You need something to make you forget that taste,’ said Lucie. ‘We’ll go to the kitchen.’ She stepped into the shop to check whether Jasper needed her.

‘Quiet day,’ he said. ‘Did you identify a poison?’

‘Not a poison, valerian.’ She almost laughed to see his disappointment. ‘I see you hoped for something more.’

Jasper ducked his head and shrugged. ‘I hoped Matt was already dead when someone slit his throat.’

His compassion moved her to hug him. ‘If he drank enough, he would likely have been asleep.’

‘And been awakened with a knife across his throat.’

Lucie touched his cheek. ‘We will be in the kitchen for a while. Then I’ll relieve you.’

Out in the garden, fat flakes had replaced the driving rain. ‘Brother Michaelo was right,’ she laughed. ‘He told me to dress warm. And look at my children, out without their cloaks, heedless of the chill wind.’

Gwen, Hugh, and Emma were all racing about the garden paths catching snowflakes on their tongues.

Kate stood in the doorway holding three cloaks. ‘They were out before I could put these on them.’

Magda took the garments from her and drew her inside. ‘They will crowd round the fire soon enough. How is thy mother?’

It had been a hard winter for coughs in the city, and Kate’s mother had succumbed, wheezing and coughing and unable to rest. The houseful of children, ranging from five to eighteen, had taken over all the work and fussed over Gemma, and yet she did not recover. It was only then that Kate told Lucie how ill her mother was. A strange forbearance. Lucie considered Gemma and her children part of the family – her daughter Tildy had served in Lucie’s home until she wed the steward of Freythorpe Hadden, the manor young Hugh had inherited from her father, her twins Rose and Rob often worked for Owen, and her daughter Kate had been their nurse and housekeeper since Tildy’s marriage. But their mother was proud, not wanting to seem to take advantage of her children’s employers. Lucie and Magda had given them powders and instructions for making hot poultices and tinctures in honey water.

‘You both worked a miracle. The cough is gone. We’re all so relieved.’

Lucie looked round the kitchen. ‘Where is Bess?’

‘Lying down up above. The warmth and the children playing round her – I don’t think she has slept much the past week and she was drowsing by the fire. I told her you would wake her if you heard anything new. I have a fire in the hall. I will bring you refreshments.’

‘Let me carry some of it,’ said Lucie.

Together they set up a small table by the hall fire with hot, spiced wine, bread, and cheese. When Kate withdrew, Lucie joined Magda on the settle, taking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her as she leaned back, sighing with relief – the cushions, the warmth, the wine trickling down her throat, easing it. Magda sat upright, ignoring the cushions.

‘Do not fall asleep before telling Magda the tale of the jug of ale.’

Lucie gave a surprised laugh. ‘I did not say?’ She had been so grateful to see Magda waiting for her when she returned from the lodging on Coney Street and then had been so intent on the analysis she had not realized. ‘Owen brought it from the room where Matt was found. The lodgings of the widow Cobb. He’s having them watched because she might be connected to Tom Merchet’s disappearance.’

‘The widow Cobb, yes, Magda heard. Some call her Claire.’

‘And some Helena.’

‘Is that so?’ Magda sipped the wine. ‘The lad’s death was Magda’s purpose in coming to thee, to learn what thou knowest before visiting his mother and sisters. Ellen’s bones do not like the damp chill of her lodgings, but she must be able to work. Magda will see to her.’

‘Do you know anything else about the widow Cobb, besides her possible name?’

‘She might have lived in the city years ago. It is said the widow walks with difficulty if she cannot hold onto something to steady herself. Thy Nicholas once came to Magda for advice about a young woman with such an affliction. She had been steady enough before a long illness, some said a beating. Ever after she moved as if she walked the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Her family live on a manor to the east. Something happened there and she fled to York. Nicholas learned of her, he did not say how, and asked Magda if she might have a cure for the woman.’

‘Did you?’

‘She disappeared before Magda examined her. Some years before thy marriage to Nicholas. Her name was Helena.’

‘Would she be the age of the widow Cobb?’

‘That is why Magda thought of her, and that some call her Helena.’

‘But no one recognizes her.’

‘Art thou certain no one does?’

Remembering the morning in St Helen’s, Lucie wondered. ‘Was this before Bess came to York?’

‘A while before, yes.’

‘Tom might have known her.’

‘That is possible.’

After the dimness and damp of Goodwife Ellen’s, the widow Cobb’s lodging felt bright and airy, though cold. Snow spiraled through the window, Owen having opened the shutter to provide light for his search.

Michaelo perched at the edge of the bed. ‘What do you seek?’

‘Anything. Nothing. Other than the bloodstains … Perhaps …’ Owen crossed toward the bed in the corner and studied the floorboards. ‘I need to pull this away from the wall.’

Michaelo bent to check beneath the bed. ‘There is a chest here. Shallow.’ He dragged it across the room and opened it. ‘A few blankets.’ Removed them. ‘Nothing more.’

Owen shifted the bed away from the corner, crouched down. There were nicks in the floorboard nearest the corner. He tugged and it gave way with ease. In the cavity, a small box; within, a broken bone comb. He dropped to his knees to explore with his hands, reaching farther and up into the wall. Cloth. He tugged on it and came away with a small, heavy pouch that jingled as if filled with coin. He smiled to himself.

‘You look pleased.’

Owen brought his find to the bed, pouring its contents onto the blanket.

Michaelo hurried over to prevent the items from tumbling to the floor. ‘Silver coins, pieces of jewelry. A small fortune. The widow is a thief?’

‘It would seem so.’ Owen fingered a gold ring set with jet. A man’s ring. He lifted it toward the light. ‘If I’m not mistaken, this belongs to Tom.’

‘A fine bit of gold and jet.’

‘A gift from a lodger who fell ill at the tavern. Tom and Bess cared for him until his wife could reach York.’

‘And now stolen.’

‘We don’t yet know how it came to be here. But considering all the rest, I think so.’ Or Tom had handed it over in payment for … what? Owen did not like the possibilities.

In the hall, Lucie and Magda were examining the hoard when Bess came down the steps patting her beribboned coif and shaking out her skirts.

‘I am glad you took some rest,’ said Owen.

‘Your home is a calm sanctuary in the midst of—’ She glanced past him. ‘What is it? What have you found?’ Her voice was still husky with sleep.

‘Lucie and I both think this is Tom’s.’ Owen held out the ring as she hurried to him.

She reached out, touched the ring, and drew back her hand with a cry as if stung. ‘Where did you find that? In her lodgings?’

‘Yes. Hidden away with silver coins and other pieces of jewelry, a few I recognize as being reported stolen.’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Was he wearing the ring when he left on Sunday?’

Bess looked at Owen as if he had brayed like a donkey. ‘Why would he? Surely you never saw it on his finger when working in the tavern? He did not wear it for everyday. Why would you ask that?’

‘I am trying to understand how he lost it. Come. Sit down.’ Owen reached for her hand, tried to guide her to sit beside Magda.

She pulled away. ‘What else did you find? Did he give her anything else?’ She bent to the table and moved the items about, shook her head. ‘No more. Only that,’ she muttered, as if to herself. ‘Unless some coin.’

Lucie went to her. ‘We know nothing more, Bess. But it is a beginning. It connects him to the widow Cobb, which tells us that it’s likely Owen’s men are watching the right house.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Bess cried. ‘Almost a week and this is all we know? And that on Tuesday last he walked out Walmgate? Where was he Sunday and Monday nights? Why Walmgate?’

‘Hush, Bess,’ said Magda, her voice resonating in the room. ‘Thou hast the best mind in York seeking thy husband, and all thy friends helping in any way they are able. Trust that thy husband will be found. Trust Bird-eye and let him do what he does best. Now come, sit by Magda and drink some of this wine.’

Glaring at her, Bess took a seat opposite Magda. She was one of the few in York who did not trust the healer.

Owen gathered the cache and settled beside Lucie. He noticed her exchanging glances with Magda. When Bess seemed calmer he asked them, ‘Any more thoughts?’

‘Magda recalls a young woman here in the city who also walked as if on-board ship in a troubled sea,’ said the healer. ‘Nicholas spoke of her, hoping for advice, but she left the city without consulting Magda. Her name was Helena. The age suggests that perhaps thou art seeking the same woman.’

‘Would my Tom have known her?’ Bess asked.

‘He was in the city for a time before she disappeared,’ said Magda.

Bess muttered something to herself as she rose. ‘It is time to resume my responsibilities. I am grateful for all you are doing.’ With a little bow, she walked out the garden door into the snow.

When Owen moved to follow her, Lucie said, ‘Let her be with it as she will.’

‘Wise counsel,’ said Magda.

Evening at the tavern was busy despite the snow, Bess barking orders that had Mary running between tables and Tupper doing what he could to help while also watching the door. Owen and Hempe sat in their usual corner discussing the murder of young Matt.

‘Murder is a heinous crime,’ said Hempe, ‘but from what you describe, this one cuts especially deep, an innocent who threatened no one. Worse, because they were protecting stolen goods. To take a life for that.’ He took a long drink. ‘I admit I’m relieved to have some progress in hunting down the thieves. But to find them like this.’

They said nothing for a while. Owen listened to the talk around him, mostly regarding the murder in Coney Street. It touched everyone.

‘You say there were only five pieces of jewelry, the rest was coin?’ Hempe asked at last.

‘Burglars steal coin as well,’ said Owen. ‘I sent Jed to assist Stephen. He will stay up on the landing, make certain no one sneaks past Stephen from the back gardens.’

‘He’s a good man.’

Five

A Close Call

‘Did you talk to Bess before you left the tavern?’ Lucie asked as she undressed before bed.

‘I tried, but she had little to say.’ Owen set his eyepatch on a shelf near the door, his clothes on the bench beneath.

‘Clothes by the door. Do you expect trouble in the night?’

‘Best to be ready.’

He felt his mind too alert for sleep, but after sharing a cup of wine with Lucie he must have succumbed to exhaustion, for at first he thought the pounding on the door below was part of a dream.

Lucie gently shook him. ‘Owen, one of the night watchmen is at the hall door.’

‘Not a dream then.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘You went down? Lucie, you know—’

‘Jed was thrown from the landing at the widow Cobb’s lodging. He’s alive, fortunately falling onto a snow-covered roof below. One of the family that lives there is with him and says he’s breathing and saying a man caught him from behind.’

Owen was already across the room and half clothed when Gwen stumbled into the room.

‘Someone banged on the door, Da.’

‘Your mother spoke with them and I am going to help,’ said Owen, kissing her cheek. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

Lucie took her by the hand and led her back to her room, where Owen heard the high voices of Hugh and Emma asking what was happening. He poked his head in as he was leaving and assured them he would tell them all about Jed’s fall from a landing to a roof in the morning. That seemed to quiet them.

Out on the street Owen soon outpaced the night watchman, who picked his way through the snow, and arrived at the lodging as Stephen and a young man were lowering Jed on a board to several men standing beneath to receive him. A woman covered him with skins.

‘He’s asked to be taken home,’ said Stephen. ‘They’ll fetch his brother, a barber.’

‘Can you move your legs, Jed?’ Owen asked.

The battered man, shaking from the cold, weakly moved one of his legs side to side. ‘The other’s broken, I think, and my arm on that side. I’m sorry, Captain.’

‘I’m the one to blame,’ said Stephen. ‘Let that whoreson distract me with his drunken talk while another slipped past me. Chased him but lost him, Captain. Wore a hat, but from what I could see his nose has been broken and one eye’s not right and he’s thick-necked. A big man, but he ran like the wind on the slick snow. Lost him down an alleyway out beyond the staithe. Too dark to follow his prints in the snow.’

‘We know more about one of them, and that’s a good night’s work,’ said Owen. He looked down at Jed. ‘A watch in the dark is challenging to the most seasoned. Glad we didn’t lose you. What do you remember?’

‘By the time I felt someone behind me he was rushing at me, arms out. When I was falling he laughed at me, cursed dog.’

Members of the family dwelling in the house that now had a dripping hole in the roof were eager to share their opinions about the widow Cobb and her visitors. They said the large squinty-eyed man was often with her, and that he and Tom had gone at each other with fists and curses several times out in the yard. More information, yet most unwelcome. The more he learned, the more Owen feared for his friend.

When Jed had been carried home and the family had retired to sleep for a few more hours, Owen promised Stephen he would arrange for more help the following night. ‘Has anyone checked on the young couple with the baby next to the widow’s room?’

‘They’ve gone,’ said Stephen. ‘Her parents took them in. Didn’t like them being here with all the trouble. Came to help them move in the early evening. A good thing, too, now this happened.’

‘Do you know the wife’s name? Where her parents live?’

‘Father introduced himself as Will Fitch. Says he’s a friend of Old Bede. Spoke of the couple as John and his daughter Agnes. Said he lives across the bridge and downriver past the staithes, closer to John’s work and all.’

‘You’ve done a good night’s work, Stephen.’

‘I will do better. Get some rest, Captain. I will tell Alfred all he needs to know in the morning.’

Sunday afternoons were set aside for practice at the butts, all men in the city, young and old alike, encouraged to attend. All, that is, who could provide their own bows and blunted arrows, or had access to them through their guilds. For years, Owen had overseen the practice, giving advice as needed, assisted recently by Jasper.

As they walked, Owen silently reviewed what he knew of the widow – he thought of her as Helena Cobb – and her men. A group of ruthless thieves, perhaps. How had Tom become involved? Or was he? Helena Cobb seemed connected to his disappearance, but there was no substantive proof of that, only witnesses who said they had seen Tom at her lodging, and that Tom had fought with one of the men. And the ring.

‘You are far away, Da. I’m worried about Tom, too,’ said Jasper. ‘He’s a good man. If he’s caught up with the people who killed Matt and injured Jed, I can’t believe it’s willingly.’

‘You’re right, I’m worrying. I agree he has never seemed one to be involved with the likes of them. Yet I know almost nothing about his life before he wed Bess. She says when she came to York the tavern had been failing for some time. He says she saved him. From what, exactly? A desperate man might take risks he would shun in easier times.’

‘I don’t like to think that.’ Jasper seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘Da, did you ever love someone and imagine a life with her. Before you met Ma?’

‘You’re thinking of Alisoun? Whether you’ll find another you love as well?’ Until the past autumn, the two had seemed destined to wed, although Owen had never been convinced they were suited to one another. It was Alisoun who had called a halt to their plans the past autumn. Long apprenticed to Magda Digby, she felt the call to go up onto the moors and work in the villages, honing her craft. She knew that Jasper expected her to settle with him in the city, where he would continue working in the apothecary and she as a midwife, also helping in the apothecary, but it was not the future for which she had trained. Owen knew Jasper was in pain, though he’d said little about her since she had departed.

‘I think about her all the time. I can’t seem to put her out of my thoughts and look forward.’ Jasper sounded exasperated.

‘Alisoun was part of your life for a long while. I had known my first love most of my life. When she handfasted with one of my friends I considered climbing up into the mountains and finding a cliff to jump off. End the agony.’

Jasper halted, looking up at Owen in amazement. ‘You did?’

‘Yes. Couldn’t imagine loving another.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was called to service as an archer. It seemed a good way to die.’ Owen remembered the power of his dark despair. ‘But once I was among my comrades I decided it was good to be alive.’

‘Was she as pretty as Dame Lucie?’

‘No. When I first walked into the apothecary I was angry at the world, and so was she, with much more cause than my dissatisfaction, and the way she sparked woke me up, brought me to life. And of course she was beautiful. Perfect, to my mind.’ He grinned at the memory.

Jasper nodded as he resumed walking. ‘That’s what Will Crounce said about my mother when he was courting her. My—’ A sigh. ‘What do I call her? My first mother? Was a time it felt wrong to call Dame Lucie my mother, but then it felt right.’

‘The heart is like that. I’m glad that you keep both your mothers in your heart.’ Owen glanced at Jasper to see how he received that. A shrug and a slight upturn of his lips, his gait easy. Good.

‘What you said about the first time you met Ma – I didn’t feel that way about Alisoun. That she was perfect.’

‘You had known her as a child,’ said Owen.

Jasper shook his head. ‘Not just that. I think maybe it was her gifts as a healer that drew me. And her voice. And her hair, so soft, so much softer than the rest of her.’

Owen tried not to smile at the last comment. Alisoun was sharp-witted, easily angered. But he, too, had of late admired Alisoun’s healing gifts, and her gentle manner when with her patients. ‘Magda sensed she had a gift long before Alisoun believed it of herself.’ A sharp breeze carrying the scent of rain blew Owen’s cloak round him and he frowned up at the gathering clouds. ‘Rain coming to melt the snow.’

‘Don’t worry, Da. Mayor Santon is proud of Rich’s progress with the bow, he’ll show up for his son. And he always draws others to the field.’ Owen had told Jasper he wanted to talk to the mayor.

His prediction proved accurate. A crowd of young men were already milling about on the field when they arrived despite the lingering snow, as well as a number of older men. Among them, Mayor Santon, who motioned for Owen to join him.

‘You know what to do, son,’ Owen told Jasper.

As the youth organized themselves, Jasper called out to the mayor’s son and joined him with a friendly query about his new bow.

Owen drew the mayor aside. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I hope it will not prove so,’ said Santon. ‘I’ve had word from the sheriff that two men serving the Duke of Lancaster have come to York searching for a pair involved in the London riots. They have cause to think they’re either here or in Beverley. I trust I can hand over the matter to you, Captain.’

In her most recent letter Princess Joan had mentioned that the duke had sent men out to search, but had said nothing of their coming so far north. ‘You are aware of the murder of young Matt and the attack on one of my men?’

Santon harrumphed. ‘I am aware of all that you are handling, as well as Tom Merchet’s disappearance. But you are practiced in dealing with the court, and the king’s men, and I have all confidence you will know how to see to their needs without disturbing the city.’ In other words, he washed his hands of them. ‘They are lodging in the hospitium at St Mary’s Abbey. And they have a letter for you.’

Six

Husbands

Sundays were quiet at the tavern, hosting only the lodgers and, occasionally, Owen and those assisting him in an investigation. Bess and Tom had often left it to the staff to see to everyone while they took walks about the city or out in the Forest of Galtres, enjoying the time together, talking about things other than the tavern, appreciating each other.

On this Sunday Bess sat alone in her bedchamber, brooding over the ring found in the widow Cobb’s lodgings and staring at a small chest she had never touched out of respect for Tom’s right to keep some memories to himself. She kept cherished mementos of her former marriages in a similar, albeit larger chest. Hers was open. A tiny felt hat that once kept the draft off her newborn daughter’s head lay in her lap. Maggie, their beautiful little girl, who lived but a year. A fever took her, the apothecary Nicholas Wilton, Lucie’s late husband, unable to save her, and Magda Digby arriving too late. Though the Riverwoman had deemed it unlikely she might have saved her had she arrived in the night, Bess had long harbored a grudge, and barked at Tom whenever he reminded her that she’d not sent for Magda until the evening of Maggie’s death, when it was clear Nicholas had no more ideas. Her last child, and her only one with Tom. Two others conceived in this room had been stillborn, one before, one after their darling daughter. She had wept for failing Tom, who loved children, and he had held her and called her daft, he loved her just as she was, and blamed himself as the cause of the deaths because had she not raised healthy children with her previous husbands, Will and Peter? Four children she’d borne to them, and all but Alice, who died of fever at five, yet lived. When she came to York to find work after Peter’s brother took over the farm on her husband’s death and made it clear he had no room for her and three children, Tom had hired her and made room for all four of them, treating the children as his own even before they’d wed. He was a good man, always kind and loving to her.

She lifted a folded square of cloth, opening it with care. Within lay a dry twig of juniper. Sniffing it, she lay back on the bed, remembering the morning she stepped into the tavern looking for work. Her landlady had suggested she try the York, that the owner had no idea how to run an inn and tavern. Tasteless, greasy food, flea-ridden pallets for those too drunk to stumble home, a tumbledown stable. His original business partner had walked away, and the only thing saving Merchet was his dab hand with brewing, his ale sometimes the best in the city. Sometimes. That did sound like a man who needed a woman to steady his course.

Opposite St Helen’s Church stood a fine manse, across from the churchyard and next to a tidy apothecary with a thriving trade. Beyond it sat the York Tavern, a once substantial building sagging into the mire of mud surrounding it, an old juniper the only thing apparently thriving on the land. Lifting her skirts, Bess had approached the door set in the side facing the neighboring apothecary’s well-built wall with a gate closing off the garden behind the house and shop. She doubted the apothecary and his family often used that gate. No one who could avoid this yard would choose to walk through it. The tavern door was open, and just within the dim interior stood a man with soft brown eyes and brown wavy hair falling to his broad shoulders. When he glanced up at her, his eyes sparking and mouth turning up in a dimpled smile, she was glad she had discarded her widow’s wimple for the day, wearing instead a felt hat that showed off the coppery curls that could be depended upon to escape.

‘I’m a widow looking for work,’ she said as she peered past him into the dusty room. She sniffed. Mold and rot. ‘From what I can tell you need me.’

He straightened, the warm eyes grown wary. ‘I run a tight ship and anyone who says otherwise should tell it to my face.’

Stubborn fool. ‘My own eyes and nose tell me otherwise. Might I take a look round and list what would make this a thriving inn?’

A staring match ensued, the two of them standing with hands on hips, chins thrust forward. But eyes began to wander and suddenly they both burst into laughter.

Tom motioned her into the tavern and lifted a jug. ‘Taste my fine ale.’

Fresh rushes on the floor – the odor of mold and rot came from farther inside. New shutters on a long window. She took a seat. No wobble on the bench or the table. The man was trying. But they were the only two in the tavern. He set a bowl down in front of her and slid onto the bench opposite with his own.

‘You’re a miracle worker, are you?’ His grin challenged.

She ignored it. ‘No. A hard worker with a good mind for accounts and experience in a kitchen.’ She tasted the ale. Nodded. Smiled. One of his good days. ‘I can help you build a business around this fine brew.’

His whole being brightened. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

‘I said so. Room and board for me and my three children and, if you begin to show a profit, we can discuss wages.’

‘Children?’ He shook his head. ‘Tavern’s no place for little ones.’

‘Depends on what sort of custom you draw in. The size of this place – it’s meant to be an inn. With a good kitchen, clean beds, this fine ale, and a reputation for keeping the king’s peace this could be a waystation for merchants doing business in York. And my children are accustomed to helping about the place.’

‘An inn.’ He folded his arms. ‘You’re ambitious for what’s not yours.’

She had gone too far. ‘What if I come mid-morning, prepare a dinner to serve midday, tidy up, home with my children mid-afternoon. You pay for the food I buy at market and a penny a day, six days a week.’

That had been more to his liking. She held the dry juniper to her nose. She’d plucked it from his hair on her first day working in the kitchen.

Lucie sat on the long window seat by the garden windows searching her late husband’s records for the young woman Magda had mentioned, the one he had hoped might be cured. In amongst his recipes for physicks, and lists of plants and their potential for healing, Nicholas had included notes about customers with particular ailments and how he proposed to treat them, as well as his results. She thought it likely he had mentioned her, an unusual case. The process was time-consuming. Although he had encouraged her to explore the records when he was training her, he’d guided her in her reading. For Helena she was delving farther back in time. And after a few mysterious entries she began to understand something she would not have expected of him, that he had spent one afternoon a week at brothels near the Bedern, diagnosing ailments and preparing remedies. His father had disapproved at first, but changed his mind when he saw the profit. Brothels’ keepers had sufficient money to pay their bills and did so without argument. A healthy whore was a profitable whore. On a hunch, Lucie paid close attention to his accounts of Wednesday afternoons. The proliferation of bruises, cut lips, and injured joints pained her. And then, one Wednesday afternoon, Helena appeared.

The knock woke Bess. As she rose, something fell from her cheek. The juniper twig. She had slept on it. A sob rose in her throat. No time for that. She folded the brittle memento in the cloth and placed it in the chest beneath dear Maggie’s felt hat, closed the lid, and pushed the chest under the bed.

‘What is it, Mary?’ she called as she crossed to the door while shaking out her gown. But her visitor was Lucie Wilton, holding a roll of parchment.

‘I may have found her,’ she said. ‘The one who now calls herself the widow Cobb.’

Bess invited her in and shut the door, but as she leaned against it she was not at all sure she wanted to hear what Lucie had found. What if Tom had loved Helena? Did she want to know that? It might forever poison their marriage. But why should it? He knew of her former marriages, knew that she had loved both husbands, grieved their deaths. Of course she wanted to know what Helena had meant to him. She joined Lucie at the table where her friend unrolled the parchment and pointed to a name.

‘Helena Brimsby,’ Bess whispered, and shook her head. ‘I don’t recall the name. What is this document?’

‘My late husband’s records. He met her at one of the brothels.’

‘Nicholas? At brothels?’ Bess could not imagine the gentle man, obsessed with the garden he created as his masterwork, frequenting brothels.

‘Not as a customer. He saw to the women’s health. On Wednesdays. His father approved because it paid well.’

Now that, Bess could believe. ‘There is a profit in sin, that is true. Does it bother you?’

Lucie gave a little laugh. ‘I am married to a former soldier who was no innocent when we wed. That was clear to me the first time we lay together.’ Bess smiled at Lucie’s blush. It must have been quite a coupling. ‘But I had not thought of Nicholas … He was not so skilled as Owen.’ The blush deepened.

Nor was her Tom a saint before. Yet it bothered Bess to think that is how he might have known Helena Brimsby. And for him to go to her now … She envied Lucie’s confidence in Owen, and admired her mixture of delicacy and strength. Not a young woman when she’d come to Tom, how did Bess compare with his earlier loves? Or lusts? ‘I am troubled by what this means about Tom’s affections,’ she admitted. She would never do so to anyone else.

Lucie squeezed her hand. ‘Do not doubt his love for you. Nor his loyalty. There will be an explanation for the connection that will not mean he has strayed.’

A true friend to say this, but Bess knew there was much Tom had closed behind a solid door barred with iron.

‘Nicholas was curious about her,’ Lucie said. ‘She asked him for a powder that would help her body relax to sleep, claimed the stumbling made her joints ache. He gave a valerian and milk of poppy physick. He later asked Magda for advice. But Helena left before seeking her help.’

‘Why?’

‘There is no explanation here, nor did Magda have one. The bawd of the house was Dame Beatrice. That might be of use.’

‘So Nicholas hoped to heal her.’ Bess thought about that. ‘Might Tom have offered her work? He has a soft heart, my Tom.’ Had that been his undoing?

‘Nicholas recorded only what concerned him. Dame Beatrice might help you. She has come far since then, owns her own house. They call her Queen Bea, queen of the Bedern.’ The minster property housing the vicars choral, who frequented the brothels on their boundary.

Bess felt her face burning. What if this Queen Bea told her Tom was a customer?

‘I know it might be uncomfortable,’ said Lucie.

‘Might? But why would she speak to me?’

‘She might not welcome Helena Brimsby’s return.’

‘How do you know about her?’

‘Owen sought her help a few years ago when he thought a murderer might be hiding in the Bedern.’ And not a tremble in her voice. That was trust, indeed. Lucie rose. ‘I will leave you to your thoughts. Would you like to read more of this?’

Bess waved it away. ‘I have much to consider. Thank you.’

‘I hope you learn something.’ Lucie tucked the roll under her arm.

Bess walked her to the door. ‘I promise not to tell Owen you suggested this.’

A surprised laugh. ‘No need for secrecy. I will tell him.’

‘He asked me not to intervene.’

‘I would much rather it was you who sought out Beatrice, not Owen. She is skilled in the seductive arts, and he is very much a man.’ Lucie laughed. So she did worry a little. ‘I imagine you will be much more persuasive than Owen or one of his men, as a woman, asking for help finding your husband.’ She paused. ‘Beatrice is not a young woman, but who knows how buxom she might be?’

They shared a laugh that felt good after a week of anguish, and Bess enveloped Lucie in a grateful embrace.

‘Bless you, my friend.’

Queen Bea’s house was tucked into an alleyway not far from Christchurch Square, so, though Bess had hoped for a longer walk during which to gather her thoughts, she arrived in short order. The house was high and narrow, two stories atop a solid stone foundation with steps down to a cellar. Surprising to come upon such a house in this alley. There was good profit in sin, for certain.

A young man answered the door, dark eyes, curly hair, olive skin. His beauty took Bess’s breath away. A dimpled smile softened the wariness as he eyed Bess. ‘How might I help you?’

‘I am Bess Merchet, owner of the York Tavern. Your mistress—’

‘You wish to talk to Her Grace?’

Her Grace? Bess bit back a grin as she nodded. ‘If she is available. I need her help.’

A lifted brow, but he smiled. ‘I will inquire. If you would wait here.’ He led her into a small screens passage and floated off.

He returned before she lost her courage, guiding her into a small but elegant hall, where a woman Bess assumed to be Queen Bea sat at an embroidery stand using a window for light. She stood as they approached. A glorious crown of silver hair adorned her, a feminine version of the young man with darker skin and cheekbones more accentuated in her strikingly attractive, unlined face. Silver hair and no lines. What did she know?

‘Bess Merchet,’ she said in a throaty, sensuous voice, reaching out to her with both hands. Bess proffered hers, to refuse would be rude and kill all hope of learning what she needed to know. It was a strong, friendly grip. ‘I have wished to meet you for a long while. Come, sit and tell me how I might help. Though I can guess. One hears that the handsome Captain Archer has his men searching the city and beyond for your husband.’ Her eyes flashed as she mentioned Owen. ‘It is said your husband was seen at the lodging of the one who calls herself the widow Cobb. Is she why you came to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me all. From the beginning.’

Beatrice’s disarmingly gracious welcome seduced Bess into sharing far more than she had intended, beginning with Tom’s odd moods, his disappearances, leading up to his vanishing on Sunday.

‘So it was not a sudden thing. But you’ve no idea what troubled him?’

‘Not this time. He is quiet about problems, but never before so much so that I could not get a word or two to help me see how to help.’

‘What do you know of this widow Cobb?’

‘I think she might be Helena Brimsby, who once worked for you.’

‘One has heard of her possible presence in the city,’ said Beatrice. ‘You want to know about her?’

‘I would appreciate anything you might have heard about her. Owen – the captain – always says that the smallest detail might provide insight.’

‘Owen,’ Beatrice murmured with a private smile.

Bess tingled deep in her parts in response to the way she invoked his name. Lucie had been right to send her instead.

The young god who had answered the door glided toward them with a flagon and two Italian glass goblets.

‘Bless you, Edwin,’ Beatrice purred as he poured the wine, bowed to them and withdrew.

As Beatrice handed a goblet to Bess she said, ‘This is from the cellars of Lord Neville. A frequent guest when in the city.’

Bess sniffed, then took a sip. ‘A remarkable claret. I was not aware Lord Neville came often to York.’

A sly smile. ‘When on personal business he is well able to blend in with the prosperous citizens of the city. But to your mission. I can do more than tell you what I have heard. I can tell you what she was like when I employed her.’

It was more than Bess had hoped. ‘I would be grateful.’

‘I missed the signs, pitying her inability to walk a straight line without holding onto a wall, feeling her pain in her family’s attempt to force her into marriage with a very old man, and then accusing her of ruining herself with some young man on the manor where the father was, I believe, steward. I suspect that the man accused was not her partner in lust. I believe part of her purpose in running away was to protect someone. She was so young. And as she was surprisingly bold and curious about sex, eager to learn, her physical problem one I could easily control in the house, I saw her as a potential favorite. At first that proved true, and she blossomed, clearly enjoying men’s fascination with her body and reveling in the freedom of scant clothing.’

Bess felt herself blush.

Beatrice smiled. ‘Oh, my dear, Helena loved coitus. Until she didn’t. That is when the troubles began. Items disappeared, servants complained she slapped them. She refused all but the youngest and most handsome clients, and began bringing in her own, sly-eyed men who cursed the servants. When one of them accosted the woman in the room next to Helena’s I had him escorted from the premises. Of course she complained and I informed her that she was no longer working for me. She, too, was escorted out with only the clothes she wore, the rest of her belongings being sold to replace some of what she had stolen.’ Beatrice looked out the window for several heartbeats, shaking her elegant head. ‘If Helena has returned to York, she is doubtless out for revenge. And that will not be pretty.’

Bess could well imagine. ‘Do you think the widow Cobb is Helena?’

Beatrice looked her in the eye. ‘I’ve no doubt of it. And one should be advised that where Helena Brimsby goes, so go the dangerous men with whom she plies her trade. If Jules, your husband’s onetime partner, is yet alive, he might very well be involved in the disappearance.’

Bess had feared that.

They talked a while longer, Beatrice sharing details of Helena’s customers, which included Jules. When it was clear that the bawd had said all she intended, Bess rose, thanking her.

‘I hope to see more of you in future. I much admire your success with the York Tavern. And you may tell Captain Archer … Owen,’ Beatrice purred, ‘that my door is ever open to him.’

Seven

The Duke’s Men

Although their agreement was that Owen would not ask Brother Michaelo to work on Sundays, he called on him on his way to the abbey, both to ask Archdeacon Jehannes whether he had heard anything about the duke’s men – he had not – and to see whether Brother Michaelo might wish to accompany him in this circumstance, a connection to the royal court. King Edward’s eldest living son, the Duke of Lancaster, had assumed most of his father’s responsibilities since the death of his elder brother, Prince Edward, the loss having exacerbated the king’s already failing health. Owen’s relationship with Lancaster was complex, uneasy, but the duke acknowledged his service to his late brother and now Prince Richard.

Michaelo readily agreed.

‘Curious, are you?’ Owen asked.

Michaelo looked down his long, slender nose and sniffed. ‘I consider it my duty.’

Brother Oswald, the hospitaller, opened the door before Owen knocked. ‘Benedicite, Captain Archer, Brother Michaelo. It is always a pleasure to welcome you.’ His smile was infectious. ‘I am praying for Tom Merchet’s safe return.’ He stepped aside, ushering in the pair. ‘The Duke of Lancaster’s men await you in the corner parlor.’

‘How many in their company?’ Owen asked.

‘Just the two, Denis de Gaul, whom we have met before, and Bertram Hawkins. They are eager to speak with you.’

Denis de Gaul. The lover of Princess Joan’s musician Ambrose Coates, whom Her Grace had placed in Lancaster’s household to learn how to protect her son when he ascended the throne. Did Denis now consider his lord to be the duke or still the prince and his mother?

Bertram Hawkins. Owen thought he had heard the name before, but could not summon up a memory.

Brother Oswald stepped into a small parlor off the hall to announce Owen and Michaelo and offer to have wine and refreshments delivered. Owen peered in behind him to get a feel for the tone of the meeting. A stocky, balding man gowned in rich blues and greens turned from a view of trees with just detectable buds on their limbs in the space between the hospitium and the abbey wall along the River Ouse. Bertram was not a young man, doubtless older than Owen, with a scar on his neck, and missing the small finger on his left hand. He had seen fighting.

‘That would be welcome, Brother Oswald. Thank you,’ he said, bobbing his head as Owen and Michaelo entered. ‘Captain Archer, Brother Michaelo. Bertram Hawkins. I saw you in Cydweli years ago, Captain, though we were never introduced.’

Cydweli. Owen had been on a mission for Lancaster. Not a connection he liked. Some details about Owen’s encounters during that mission he preferred buried. ‘Welcome to York,’ he said. ‘Brother Michaelo attends me as the secretary who handles my correspondence to Her Grace.’ He turned to Denis, who had remained in the shadows, but now stepped forward, arms open to embrace Owen.

‘It is good to see you,’ said Denis, ‘and you, Brother Michaelo.’

When all had greeted one another, Owen motioned to the chairs drawn into a circle. ‘Shall we sit? I’ve been training the men of the city at the butts and would prefer to discuss this in comfort.’

‘Forgive me, Captain, of course,’ said Bertram.

And, likely listening at the door, Brother Oswald gave a knock and opened it for a pair of novices carrying trays of cups, two flagons of wine, and bowls of cheese, bread, and spiced nuts.

Owen took a cup of wine and a handful of nuts, settling back until the novices departed. ‘Mayor Santon mentioned that you are searching for a pair involved in the London riots.’

‘Straight to the point,’ Bertram said. ‘I like that.’

‘We are,’ said Denis, ‘and were interested when the mayor mentioned some trouble in the city, a murder and several thefts. One of the men we seek is a known thief. More than a petty thief, one who has an organized group working under him who do not shy from murder.’

Owen sat forward. ‘Theft and murder often go hand in hand. Tell me about these men.’

‘John Grey and Friar Jerome,’ said Denis. ‘Grey is one of the men accused of leading a mob that attacked Lancaster’s palace of the Savoy in London, and the duke’s men believe they’ve traced him to York.’

‘And the friar?’

‘Jerome, an Austin friar who cast the horoscopes of the king and the duke predicting the king’s death and that the duke would steal the crown from his nephew. He’s traveling with Grey. He’s said to dabble in alchemy.’

Owen knew of him from the princess. ‘Why would he take up with Grey?’

‘We don’t know. They’re either here or in Beverley, where Grey is said to have a home.’

‘There is a man who might be involved in the recent thefts and the murder,’ said Owen, ‘built like an ox, a squint in one eye.’

Bertram grinned. ‘Sounds like Grey. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. He was here last night, managed to escape the man chasing him. Not seen since, so he may have departed the city.’

‘But you had him last night?’ Bertram was practically shouting.

‘He escaped my man,’ said Owen coolly. He would not be bullied by the duke’s man. ‘Proved a surprisingly good runner in the dark. Which means he knows the city well.’

‘And your men don’t?’

‘I might ask the same of you. Your men don’t know London well? He escaped you first.’ Owen sipped his wine while Denis gave Bertram a signal to watch himself. Bertram poured himself more wine and sat back to drink it.

‘Any news of the friar?’ Denis asked.

‘I’ve heard nothing. How do you propose to proceed in your search?’ Although in his capacity as Princess Joan’s man in the north he had pledged to do all he could to preserve the king’s peace, this was essentially the sheriff’s responsibility, and Bertram and Denis’s mission. ‘Have you spoken to the sheriff?’

‘We have. It was Sir John who suggested we call on Mayor Santon before speaking with you,’ said Denis. ‘Both advised us that we need not search the city, that you would know if anyone had seen these men, or would know who to ask. They preferred that we not make it known to the citizens that the pair might be here.’

‘No one wants London’s troubles to spread,’ said Owen. ‘Including Her Grace.’

‘Of course. You are in frequent contact with Princess Joan,’ said Denis.

‘What else can you tell me about the two?’

Denis looked to Bertram. Perhaps Denis had not seen either of them.

Bertram set aside his now-empty cup, his high color suggesting it had not been his first. He cleared his throat. ‘Before I describe them, I pray you excuse me for my temper. The journey was difficult, and the sheriff and mayor behaved as if we were pests for whom they had no time. I expected you to be much the same, despite my comrade’s assurances that here we would find common ground.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Owen. ‘Go on.’

Bertram hesitated, as if he’d expected some sort of absolution. Too soon for that.

‘You were describing the men,’ Owen said.

Bertram held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at his hands. ‘The friar is slender, about my height, and walks with a slight stoop as if he’s spent his life in the scriptorium. He has a high voice for a man, and speaks as if from Italy, perhaps Spain. As for Grey, you’ve apparently seen him?’

‘No. Others have described him.’

‘Your description of him was the same I’ve heard.’

‘So you’ve not seen either of them?’

‘Only the friar. Came upon him preaching on a corner. Don’t know why anyone would listen, but he drew a crowd.’

‘Friar Jerome made quite a stir amongst the commoners in London,’ said Denis. ‘He is a dangerous liar.’

‘He has certainly not made himself known here. Not yet,’ said Owen. He rose. ‘I propose we meet here later tomorrow, after I’ve had time to inquire about him, and find out what more I can about last night’s incident,’ said Owen. ‘Mid-afternoon?’

Denis rose to see them out, thanking Owen and asking after his family. At the door, he said, ‘We will, of course, move about the city tomorrow. I promise we will only look about, not stir up trouble.’

‘I am not your jailer,’ said Owen.

‘May Our Lord guide you in your endeavors,’ said Brother Michaelo.

An icy wind stirred his cloak as Owen stepped outside the hospitium. ‘More snow? I thought spring was coming.’

‘Tastes like snow,’ said Michaelo. ‘I pray Tom Merchet has found shelter from this.’

‘As do I.’ Owen knew the dangers that befell those unprepared for extreme weather. ‘You were quiet in there. Any observations?’

‘They are unaccustomed to working together even after the long journey north,’ said Michaelo. ‘Denis worries that Bertram will forget that they need your help.’

That seemed true. ‘I sense there is more to their mission they do not care to share with us,’ said Owen. ‘Even Denis. Not that I have known him long, but he was of great help last time we met.’

‘He was rescuing his love. Ambrose is not in danger this time.’

‘You felt the guardedness as well?’

‘I did,’ said Michaelo.

‘I am glad you were there.’

‘My pleasure.’

They parted ways at the minster gate, Owen heading down Stonegate eager for a quiet evening.

Eight

Connections

A sharp wind shook the linden as Owen passed beneath it, knocking ice and snow off the branches and onto his cloak. The bright kitchen invited him in, wrapping him in warmth.

‘Da!’ Gwen waved him over to the table where she, Lucie, and Jasper were studying records, some in leather cases, others in rolls.

Nicholas Wilton’s, he guessed. He sank down onto the bench to take off his boots, shook off his cloak and left it on a hook, thanking Kate for the bowl of ale she proffered.

‘More snow coming?’ she asked.

‘Feels like it.’ Raking his free hand through his hair he stepped over to the table near the fire.

‘How did the rest of the training go, Jasper?’

‘Went well. Not much fuss about your leaving early. Some asked if you’d heard news of Tom. Everyone’s worried for him.’

‘You were a great help. Thank you.’

Jasper grinned.

As he’d guessed, the records were Nicholas’s. ‘More training?’

‘That and looking for any mentions of the York Tavern or Helena Brimsby,’ said Lucie, ‘the latter possibly the real name of the widow Cobb.’

‘How do you know?’

She drew him into the hall and told him what she had found, and shared with Bess. His first reaction, a flash of anger. Bess would act on the information, take risks. But Lucie’s argument that a distraught wife’s request for information might be more readily received than an approach from Owen was sound. Bess’s emotion might go far to soften the heart of the women who remembered Helena and might recognize her in the widow Cobb.

‘And I do not need to worry that Queen Bea will work her charms on you,’ Lucie teased.

He laughed. ‘Clever woman, though you never need worry that I’ll stray from you.’ He put an arm round her waist. ‘Do you think she’s there now?’

‘I am sure of it. And that she will come straight here to share any information gleaned.’

He kissed her, then sank onto the settle, sipping his ale and staring at the welcome fire for a moment, thinking. ‘I pray this Helena Brimsby is the widow, and that Bess learns more about her. You say you’ve been looking for further mentions. Does Gwen understand what this Helena was? My sweet daughter?’

Lucie sat beside him. ‘She laughed at my vague explanation and said, “I know about the women who pleasure the vicars choral. Everyone does.”’

Owen blinked with dismay. ‘Who has taught her such things? And why are you smiling? Gwen’s just a child.’

‘In truth, my love, I was not surprised. Training her in the apothecary has opened my eyes to just how little gets past our eleven-year-old. She hears far more than we imagine, and frets over it until she understands.’ Lucie touched his left cheek, running her fingers along the scars, reading his mood. ‘Jasper said some of Lancaster’s men are in York, and that you met them at the abbey. There is more trouble?’

‘Perhaps. They seek a pair wanted by the duke for their part in the London riots, a John Grey, who sounds very much like the man with the squint, and an Austin friar named Jerome. Bertram Hawkins and Denis de Gaul are the ones representing Lancaster.’

‘Denis and Lancaster? But isn’t he … Ah. I’d forgotten Princess Joan sent him to observe the duke’s household so that he might better serve Prince Richard. But why such a mission? Tracking down such men?’

‘I sense there is more to it, a piece they’re keeping from me. But I’ve no idea what it might be.’

‘What do they say about these men?’

‘Grey is known to gather thieves to do his bidding. Also a murderer. The friar is accused of treason for casting a horoscope of King Edward predicting his death, and one predicting that Lancaster would steal the crown from Prince Richard.’

‘Doubtless he is the one they truly want.’

‘He may be most important to the duke, but I want Grey.’

Lucie sighed. ‘I pray this does not interrupt the search for Tom.’

‘I will not permit that.’

A smile. ‘Do you know Bertram Hawkins?’

‘He remembers me from Cydweli.’

‘Oh.’ She expressed a world of worry in that one word.

‘I’m uneasy as well. Does he know I was recruited by Lawgoch’s man?’ A Welshman supported by the French to rebel against English rule. ‘Did Lancaster add him to pressure me if I seemed reluctant to cooperate?’

‘Would he do that?’ Lucie nodded. ‘Of course he would. Do you remember Hawkins?’

‘The name only.’

‘They will be searching the city?’

‘The mayor and sheriff have assured them I will do the work for them.’

Lucie’s eyes flashed. ‘The mayor and sheriff ask much of you. Have they no sense of responsibility?’

‘Very little. They see their positions as honorary, and a financial gain insufficient to stir them to action.’

Bess returned in late afternoon, gathering Owen and Lucie in the hall to tell them all she had learned.

Lucie cleared her throat when Bess delivered Queen Bea’s message for Owen. ‘That is quite an invitation. I approve her taste.’ She laughed at Owen’s dimpled grin, but … No, Owen would not stray. Would he?

Something about the account bothered Lucie. She puzzled over it while Owen told Bess about his plan to engage the duke’s men in the search for any news of Tom. A chance comment about the usefulness of gossips brought it to the surface. ‘Helena Brimsby, clearly a brazen thief, should have been on everyone’s mind when the widow Cobb arrived in the city with a similar physical clumsiness. Why did we need to dig to find her history?’

‘I wondered the same,’ said Bess. ‘Dame Beatrice said the brothel owners keep to themselves. As in any trade, rumors of trouble are bad for business, so she and her colleagues agreed to take care of the problem, ensure that she did not find work among them, and thought she would go away.’

‘They had forgotten about her thieving, which might be what brought her to York,’ said Owen.

‘But how did Tom get caught up in this?’ asked Lucie.

‘Beatrice suggested that the man chasing after Tom might be the link. She did mention that Tom’s old partner, Jules, had been a frequent customer, particularly fond of Helena. But she said Jules would not dare show his face in York – he owed too many people money, including Queen Bea. A lot of money.’

And he had stolen from Tom. ‘Perhaps he’s helping Helena from afar,’ said Lucie, ‘and Tom has gone to confront him?’

‘Pray God he did not,’ said Bess.

‘Did she know any more about Jules?’ Owen asked. ‘Or where Helena has been living?’

‘She thinks Jules, Tom, and Helena already knew one another when younger, and shared some trouble in the past.’ Bess stopped, her gaze unfocused.

‘What has Tom told you about the time before he came to York?’ asked Owen.

Bess blinked. ‘That is what troubles me. He was born not far from Hull. Went to sea for a time. Did not prosper. Then worked as a joiner on several manors, not towns because he had no formal apprenticeship with a guild member. His family live mostly around Hull, a few near Scarborough.’

‘Where did he meet Jules?’

‘I assumed at his last position. Both were unhappy and came to the city to try their luck with what they had managed to save.’

Bess not having unearthed all of Tom’s history surprised Lucie. She was a woman determined to know precisely where she stood, yet she had apparently exercised great restraint in allowing Tom his secrets.

‘What they had saved from joiner work on a manor?’ Owen tried to keep his tone uncritical, but Bess frowned at him.

‘He is a good man.’

‘Of course he is,’ said Lucie.

‘He is now, but what about in the past, that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Bess. ‘And, God help me, so am I. I don’t know. Why did I never pry?’ She stood up abruptly. ‘I will ask his nephew.’

Owen had mis-stepped, revealing his own doubts about what he knew of Tom’s earlier life. It was increasingly evident that Tom’s disappearance was linked to something in his past, and that the troubles surrounding Helena were possibly – likely to be? – linked to it. But Bess need not be dragged into this doubt. Surely it was more important to keep her calm, to do all he could to avoid jarring her love for Tom, for what if he were wrong? What if Tom had done nothing wrong, now or in the past? He did not want a rift in their marriage on his conscience.

‘Do you think the family would send their young ones to you if Tom had ever been anything but honest? Would Tupper be here?’ As he spoke, he realized that was a good question for him as well.

Bess had paused halfway across the room, looking confused. ‘No. No, the family all consider Tom a positive influence. They always say so when asking us to take on their problem children. Is it possible they did not know?’

‘Or that whatever lay between the three back then was considered innocent,’ said Lucie. ‘Perhaps some foolishness typical of youth?’

‘When Tom came to the city he was in mourning for his wife. He was no lighthearted youth,’ said Bess, continuing on to the garden door. ‘I have much to think about.’ With a nod, she drew her cloak round her and departed.

Owen had forgotten Tom’s previous marriage. ‘Do you know how long he’d been married?’

Lucie wiped away a tear. ‘Five years or so. I’m not certain. Long enough that they had given up all hope of children.’ She glanced out the window.

Owen drew her into his arms and she held tight to him, breathing in his familiar scent. She was the most fortunate woman to have such a husband, four wonderful children, and a life of relative privilege. Joy such as this could so easily be ripped away in a moment.

Out in the garden spiraling wet snow pricked Bess’s bare face. Despite the cold she sat down on the bench beneath the old linden, needing quiet before facing the tavern. ‘Oh Tom,’ she whispered into the fading light, ‘I miss you so. You are my anchor. Come home to me. I don’t care what you’ve done. Just come home.’ Bowing her head, she prayed, Blessed Virgin, I beseech you to watch over my Tom. He is a good man. She covered her head with her hood and wept.

After some time, a warm presence settled on the bench beside her, an arm snaking round her shoulders and pulling her close. She rested her head on Lucie’s shoulder.

Nine

News

After a night of broken sleep, Owen slipped out of bed hoping not to disturb Lucie.

‘You, too?’

He’d not realized she was already sitting up. ‘So many pieces. I connect several and suddenly the entire string collapses.’ He leaned over to kiss her. ‘And you?’

‘I keep seeing Bess on the garden bench overcome with worry about Tom. I know how that feels, how frightening the uncertainty … Is he alive? Is he whole? Will we ever be together again? How can I bear not knowing, not being able to help?’ Her trembling voice, the shadows beneath her eyes …

He paused in dressing. She had spent the night reliving her own pain in understanding that of her friend. He imagined Lucie pacing the room, especially when her first husband, Nicholas, lay dying in the bedchamber above the shop and during Owen’s own long absence in Wales. ‘I bring such trouble to you.’ Even worse, he could not promise that such times were over, his responsibilities potentially taking him away any time.

She hurried over and kissed him. ‘I would marry you all over again, my love. I have no regrets.’

He held her for a moment, struggling for what to say.

She pushed away, gently. ‘How was Bess in the tavern last night?’

It took a moment to register the abrupt change of topic. He smiled. ‘You would never guess it to see her in the tavern after she left you, ordering Mary about, ensuring that the lodgers were fed, that Hempe and I had sufficient ale. She is a remarkable woman.’

‘She is. And I’ve all confidence that once Tom is home, she will feel whole again.’

Once he was home. Whenever that might be. And then? Owen was not so confident as Lucie.

‘If you see Jed this morning let me know if there are any physicks he needs,’ she said.

Owen shook away his doubts. ‘I will. I thought I would first call on the couple who had lodged next to the widow. They might need rest as much as Jed, but with an infant, they will be up and about. Alfred might know where exactly the wife’s parents live.’

‘I have something for Alfred and Winifrith’s baby,’ said Lucie. ‘Stop in the shop before you leave.’

Alfred glanced up from the baby on his lap. ‘Captain Archer.’

‘Forgive the early call.’ Owen crouched to greet Alfred’s son, Young Bede, and hand him a candied angelica cane. ‘Good for teething,’ he said. ‘A gift from Lucie.’

‘That’s grand.’ Alfred grinned as Young Bede reached for Owen’s eye patch, and moved his tiny hand away.

‘You’re a fine young man,’ said Owen, tickling the boy and grinning at his gurgly giggle. ‘Come work for me when you’re a wee bit older, eh?’

‘At the rate he’s growing it will be sooner than you think.’ Winifrith took him from Alfred. ‘I pray you, thank Dame Lucie for the angelica. It’s just what the little one needs. If you’re here to talk to Da, he’s still abed. Shall I wake him?’

‘No need. I’m off to Will Fitch’s house. His daughter and her husband and baby were lodging next to the widow Cobb but are there now. For safety. Stephen said you know them, Alfred?’

Alfred rose. ‘I’m your man, Captain.’

‘I’d be grateful.’

‘Be ready for raised voices and tears,’ said Winifrith. ‘Agnes and her ma are like oil and water, and with the baby it will be that much worse.’

‘All the more reason to bring along a friendly face,’ said Owen.

Alfred paused before a shop front across from the staithes on North Street, then led Owen down the narrow alley to a tidy house behind it. A baby’s wail and a woman’s soft singing greeted them as they stepped up to the door. Upon Alfred’s knock someone approached from inside muttering under their breath. A red-faced woman with a pinched mouth opened the door, clearly ready to send them off.

‘Good morrow, Goodwife Mary,’ said Alfred. ‘This is Captain Archer.’

Small eyes studied Owen as he stepped forward. ‘And where were you when that whore and her men kept my grandson awake all night with their comings and goings?’

‘Benedicite, Goodwife Mary. I would like to talk to John and Agnes about that very thing,’ said Owen.

A man appeared behind the woman, drawing her away from the door. ‘Forgive my wife, Captain. She’s a mother fretting about her daughter and means no disrespect. Agnes and John are in the kitchen with our grandson. They will welcome the chance to talk to you.’

The fretting baby burst into fresh tears when Owen and Alfred entered the room. Owen wondered whether it was his eyepatch that frightened the boy, something he had dreaded with his own children. Though with them it had proved not to be a problem, it could be with young ones who did not know him.

‘Forgive our intrusion,’ he began.

‘No, you are most welcome, Captain,’ said Agnes, rocking the baby in her arms. ‘You have children of your own, I know, and you, Alfred. Just ignore our angry little one.’

John motioned them to a bench near the window. ‘You will be wanting to know what we heard from next door. Most of it’s useless, complaints about missed appointments and bad advice.’

‘And her coaxing the men to do her bidding by tearful pleas for protection for a poor widow left with nothing,’ said Agnes. ‘Yet there was always strong drink in that room, plenty of it by the state of the men clattering back down the steps late at night.’

‘Did you hear any names? Or a mention of where she was from?’

‘I think I once heard her say “it wasn’t like this in Beverley”, but this little one was wailing with an aching ear so I cannot be sure,’ said Agnes.

‘Tom Merchet was mentioned, but you know of that,’ said John. ‘And Matt was mentioned, may he rest in peace. And she mentioned jewels as if a person, said this, said that, but it did not make sense.’

Jules. She had mentioned Tom’s former partner.

‘Lately there’s been a man with her has a deep voice,’ said John. ‘Fond of cursing.’

‘And she never mentioned being a widow when he was there,’ said Agnes. ‘They sounded more like a married couple, sometimes amiable, often sparring.’

‘Name?’ Owen asked.

‘I’m not sure, but I think it might be John, like me.’

‘Any mention of a friar?’

‘A churchman?’ Agnes said. ‘No. I would have remembered that.’

‘What did he call the widow?’

‘Helena,’ said Agnes. ‘I was surprised, because she told us her name was Claire, and others called her Mistress Cobb or Widow Cobb.’

Jed slept through their brief visit, but the barber assured them the fall from the landing broke an arm and a leg, but no more, and he would heal quickly.

‘He’s had worse scampering atop the houses as a lad. Fell off more than one. Miracle he’s alive. A friend wasn’t so lucky. That cured him, you can be sure. I will tell him you came to see him, Captain. And if he remembers aught, we’ll send word.’

After nighttime disturbances in the city the apothecary always did a brisk business in the first hours of opening, with the door more often open than closed as people pressed in from the cold. Some, hoping for gossip, departed before reaching the counters having heard Lucie and Jasper assure those before them that the captain and his men were about the business of the king’s peace, and realized they were sharing only those details that might lead to useful information. But most persisted, for late spring was a time for muscle salves and heart tonics as people bent to work in their gardens and fought with still-frozen soil. Few walked away empty-handed. When at last Lucie and Jasper had the shop to themselves for a moment, they tidied up and took turns going into the garden for some air. Though it was still cold, the weather had calmed. For now.

Lucie had just returned from a brisk walk along the garden paths when the shop bell jingled. She waved Jasper on out the garden door. ‘I will see to the customer.’

A large man stood in the shop doorway, nodding to Lucie as she entered through the beaded curtain. He was dressed for inclement weather, wearing boots, fur-lined cloak, and hat, and shifting a pair of leather gloves from hand to hand. Familiar, but she could not place him. Not a regular customer.

‘Dame Lucie?’ he said with a hint of uncertainty.

‘Yes. How might I assist you today?’

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. ‘It’s the captain I seek, needing a word with him.’

‘He is out on city business. Might I give him a message?’

‘Yes, yes that would be best. Forgive me, I am Piers Alcock.’

Of course. ‘Now I recognize you. You’ve a shop on Fossgate. Your daughter Juliana is one of our customers.’ The fair Juliana who made Jasper blush and fumble with powders.

‘It was my daughter guided me here, said that you or your son Jasper would know how to find the captain. She noticed your son at the garden gate and went to talk to him.’

Lucie smiled to think of Jasper’s delight. ‘I see. And the reason you must see my husband?’

‘I am just returned from business in Beverley, and I have information about your neighbor Tom Merchet that Captain Archer needs to hear.’

Her heart skipped. News at last. ‘Did you see Tom in Beverley?’

‘I did, though I barely knew him, his face was so swollen and bruised from a beating, a bad one, and his wits confused. He stands accused of fatally injuring the steward of a manor not far from the town where he had worked long ago, and seeks sanctuary in Beverley. The steward’s son says he witnessed Tom attack his father. My cousin Nick took Merchet in when a friend found him and brought him in his cart to Beverley. Nick says the steward and his son have caused trouble in the past, so he reckons there’s another side to the story. The provost of Beverley Minster is reluctant to accept Tom’s oath for sanctuary. With his wits confused, sometimes Tom swears he did not do it, others that he does not remember doing it. The provost asked me to bring word to Captain Archer, hoping he can resolve this with the owner of the manor, or, at the least, find a way to bring Merchet back to York.’

‘Mon Dieu.’ Lucie sighed. She was relieved to know Tom was alive, but the rest … ‘If Tom attacked the steward, who attacked him?’

‘The one who brought word to Beverley swore he knew nothing of that.’ Piers nodded. ‘You see why my cousin doesn’t believe the account.’

‘I will get word to my husband at once. Will he find you at your shop later today?’

Alcock cleared his throat and studied his boots for a moment. ‘I thought to wait for him at the York Tavern. I could use a hot meal and some good ale after the journey and my wife away. But I did not know if I should tell Tom’s wife what I know. My daughter said of course I must tell her, but I did not know what was best.’

What to do. What would she want if it were Owen? ‘If you would wait until my son returns to watch the shop, he should not be long, I will go with you and we can talk to her together.’

His ruddy face brightened. ‘That would be much appreciated, Dame Lucie. I don’t know Bess Merchet well and I feared I might say the wrong thing.’

But first Lucie needed to send word to Owen. Out in the lane she hailed two boys walking along the wall of St Helen’s churchyard. ‘Captain Archer is either at Old Bede’s house, or across the river at Will Fitch’s home, do you know those?’

‘I know Master Fitch,’ said one of the boys.

‘Everyone knows Old Bede,’ said the other.

‘There’s a penny each to fetch the captain. Tell him someone has come from Beverley with news he needs to hear. They will await him in the York Tavern. Say it’s urgent.’

And away they went.

‘Small fortune for the likes of them,’ said Piers Alcock from the doorway.

Lucie, Piers, and Bess sat in the alcove between the tavern room and the kitchen. Piers downed a bowl of ale before launching into his tale and was not far along when Owen arrived.

‘The boys found you so quickly,’ said Lucie. ‘You were still at Old Bede’s?’

‘Heading back there with Alfred.’ Owen nodded to Piers. ‘I wondered who I would see.’

Lucie introduced them.

‘Before you tell me your tale,’ said Owen, ‘I noticed the customers eyeing this doorway, and I propose we adjourn to our house.’

‘Forgive me. My wife tells me I share all with the neighbors I’m so loud,’ said Piers. ‘I will speak more quietly.’

‘That would be best,’ said Bess, ‘as it’s nearing dinner time. Mary might need me, so I cannot leave the tavern.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mary, moving past them with a fresh pitcher of ale. ‘Cook is here, and Tupper, we can cope.’

As they filed through the garden, Piers stopped to speak with his daughter, who sat with Kate while the children played in the thinning blanket of crusted snow. Lucie invited Juliana to warm herself in the kitchen.

‘I love watching your little ones play, Dame Lucie. Emma has the best laugh! But, thank you, I will step in when my toes lose all feeling, which might be soon.’ Juliana gave her a dimpled smile, her blue eyes bright.

Owen, watching from a few feet away, could see why Lucie thought Jasper had moved his affections from Alisoun to Juliana.

When they were resettled in the hall, a pitcher of ale on the table, Owen asked Piers to start again.

The beginning of his tale was secondhand, from his cousin Nick Alcock, who had overseen Tom’s care since he had been brought to his home by a friend traveling to Beverley. He had found Tom lying beside the road in the early morning. Later that day the son of the steward of Holcomb Manor went to the keeper’s bailiff in Beverley accusing Tom of attacking his father and leaving him for dead. Apparently the keeper did not insist on seeing Tom. Nick first had a surgeon see to Tom, and then a midwife took over his care. She nursed him for a day and a night before he woke. He was understandably agitated about his condition, muttering about a cursed family, all liars. When he was told he was accused of attacking the steward, who lay near death, he asked for sanctuary, swearing that he had hit the steward in the face, bloodying his lip, nothing more. Or it might have been his son he had hit.

‘Earlier you said he could not remember,’ said Bess.

‘A curious thing, it was later that he grew more confused.’

Bess started to rise. ‘We must leave immediately for Beverley.’

Owen touched her forearm. ‘First let us hear him out. Then we will decide how best to proceed.’ When Bess resumed her seat, Owen nodded to Alcock to continue.

The man cleared his throat, ill at ease. ‘I do not mean to distress you, Mistress Merchet.’

‘Bless you. But do not spare me. I would know what you saw.’

Alcock gulped some ale and cleared his throat again. ‘The midwife had just been to see him and said that I must be brief. One arm between splints and several fingers bandaged, a leg wrapped in bandages, and his face – at first I thought I had been mistaken, this did not look like Tom Merchet. But I moved to the side that was less damaged and could see it was him indeed. Swollen, bruised, a patch over one eye – they say he has not lost the sight but it is so swollen the bandage is holding a salve to draw out the fever. And he was stabbed in his side, lost a lot of blood. The surgeon had told my cousin that God was watching over Merchet.’

‘My Tom,’ Bess sobbed.

Lucie put her arm round her, bent to whisper something. Bess leaned her head on the comforting shoulder.

‘Did Tom recognize you?’ Owen asked.

‘He was asleep that first visit. But the next morning he was awake and I told him I was Piers Alcock from York and he managed to ask if you were safe.’ He nodded to Bess. ‘I assured him you were …’ His voice broke and he paused for another drink. ‘Then of course I knew for certain it was him.’

‘The son says he witnessed Tom beat his father, but who beat Tom?’ Owen asked.

‘Tom’s been unable or unwilling to say aught about the attack except that he is not safe and begs sanctuary. For their part, the minster provost and the town keeper are most eager to hand him over to your care, Captain. They say they do not have the resources to guard him sufficiently. Apparently the steward’s son, Carl, has fallen in with a bad lot, but his father, Harry Brimsby, always denies the accusations – burglary, physical attacks. I would guess the provost and the keeper are worried Carl and his friends beat Tom and will come to finish him off.’ Alcock took a long drink.

‘Brimsby?’ Lucie looked to Owen.

He nodded. Helena’s family?

Bess did not seem to notice the name. ‘It sounds like what my Tom needs is the protection of the law. Why does he seek sanctuary?’

Alcock wiped his mouth. ‘He said his sin was silence.’

‘Silence?’ Owen thought about that. Had Tom witnessed a crime and stayed silent? Who was the steward to Helena? Brother? Cousin? Former husband? ‘What manor? Who owns it?’

‘Holcomb Manor. Sir Ralph Hastings owns it.’

The former sheriff and a friend. That might be good news. Owen would speak with Sir John, the current sheriff, who was doing his best to stay in close contact with his predecessor while he found his footing. Owen might get word to Sir Ralph to meet him at the manor. Or at least recommend him to someone he trusted there.

‘I am grateful for your thorough account,’ said Owen. ‘I’ve people to see today. If all goes well I will leave for Beverley in the morning with my best men.’

Bess stood up sharply. ‘Why wait? We might leave this afternoon.’

‘We? No, Bess. You heard what Alcock said – Brimsby might cause trouble. I understand your yearning to see Tom, I do. But our purpose is to bring Tom home safely. And once here, he will need you ready to nurse him back to health.’

A flame still flickered in Bess’s eyes, but her color had softened. ‘Why aren’t you leaving today?’

‘I need to get word to Sir Ralph, prepare the men, collect supplies, ensure we have horses ready to ride out early in the morning.’

‘And all the while …’ Bess crossed over to stand at the window, her back to them.

He understood her frustration, Lucie’s words from this morning still raw in his heart. ‘Everything I do today will give me the best chance to bring him home, and quickly. I swear to you I will ride hard to Beverley. And to Holcomb Manor. My return, with Tom in a cart, will perforce be slow. It will be all to the better if I have resolved the issue sufficiently to avoid trouble on the journey home.’ Owen kept his voice neutral, no argument.

Bess was quiet for a long while.

‘Perhaps I should leave,’ said Piers. ‘My daughter …’ He rose.

Bess turned back to them. ‘Then it is settled. Forgive my heat. It is difficult to think of my husband in such pain. But I am grateful to all of you. Come along with me, Master Piers. You and Juliana will have a good hot dinner at the tavern, with my thanks.’

Ten

Preparations

Showers of wet snowflakes alternating with sharp, icy rain weighed down Bess’s cloak as she trudged out of Bootham Bar on her mission. She looked forward to the relief of having it behind her. At the tavern door she had hesitated, tempted to use the weather as an excuse to stay home and avoid humiliation, but this was for Tom, he needed the best healer. Would she agree to care for him? Bess turned toward the riverbank, picking her way around the rickety homes of the poor. A sweet-faced child rushed out from one, taking Bess’s hand and skipping along beside her.

‘Are you going to see the dragon lady? Are you sick? Or is it your child? She cured my ma of a fever so high all the women said she must die. But Dame Magda brought her back.’

The girl was perhaps five years old, though so thin her growth might be stunted. Yet her eyes sparkled as she chattered away, seemingly unbothered by Bess’s silence. It was not that Bess refused to answer but the child did not pause long enough to allow it. She found herself laughing and knew it for a moment of grace. At the riverbank the child introduced her to the boy who would row her over the rising river to Magda’s rock. Bess could tell from his wet cloak that he had been out here a while. Magda inspired dedication.

‘This is my friend,’ said the girl. ‘She’s a little fearful of going out to the dragon rock.’

It was not the dragon Bess feared. ‘Is Dame Magda at home?’ she asked the lad.

‘You are in luck, Goodwife Merchet, she is.’

‘You know my name?’

‘I take messages for Dame Magda all over York. I know almost everyone.’ He puffed out his chest, quite proud of himself. As he should be.

‘What is the fare?’

‘A half penny, and if you won’t be long I will stay there unless I see another customer on the bank.’

She took a half penny out of her scrip and handed it to him. ‘I should not be long.’ She looked down at the girl and asked her name.

‘Angel,’ said the girl.

‘That you are,’ said Bess.

‘You don’t want to turn my sister’s head,’ said the lad.

Once they were moving across the surprisingly choppy water, Bess asked the lad his name.

‘Drew. Andrew, but that’s my da as well, so I’m Drew.’

Angel and Andrew had brightened her day. ‘Could one of your parents use some work?’

They had reached the rock. Drew climbed nimbly up to secure the coracle and held out a hand to assist Bess. ‘Da works, but not enough to feed all of us. Ma needs to care for us.’

‘Are you the eldest?’

‘My sister Issy. Isabel. She’s two years older and thinks she’s a woman.’

‘Could your mother spare her for some work at the tavern, cleaning and fetching and carrying?’

He looked doubtful. ‘Are you offering Issy work?’

‘I am. I will need help with my husband who is … ill.’

‘That’s why you’re here?’ He nodded. ‘I will tell her.’

‘Bless you.’ Relief. Now that she had it in her head she dearly wanted to hire his sister. ‘If it suits her, she should come to the tavern tomorrow or the next day, as soon after the gates open as she is able. She would be finished in time to be home before dark.’

‘Thou art a good woman, Bess Merchet.’

Bess spun round, having forgotten she was at Magda’s door.

‘I pray you forgive my lack of courtesy, Dame Magda.’

‘Thou art in need of help. As are Andrew and Margaret, with eight children to feed and clothe. Now come within.’

Bess crossed herself as she glanced at the upside-down dragon’s head over the doorway, then hurried through. Within, the comforting scents of herbs, spices, and a most aromatic fire welcomed her. Apple wood? Cherry? Pear? She could not quite place it. She studied the fire with interest as she took the seat Magda indicated.

‘How might Magda help thee?’

‘Owen is going to Beverley to bring my husband home. After Tom was beaten, stabbed, and left for dead along the road, a good Samaritan took him there. Bones broken, face swollen, stabbed in the side, wits a-muddle, and I do not know what else. When Owen brings him home – if he can convince those accusing him of murder …’ She winced at the words, stopped to breathe. ‘My Tom would never …’ She shook her head. ‘When Owen brings him home I will nurse him, but he needs your expert care, Dame Magda. I know I haven’t been … I blamed …’ A gentle hand on hers spread warmth up her arm, then throughout her body. Tears threatened and her throat tightened, but when she met Magda’s clear blue gaze she was comforted. All these years she had been wrong. ‘If you could have saved my Maggie, you would have,’ she whispered, ‘wouldn’t you?’

‘Thou needst not ask. Magda does her best for all who seek her help.’

‘I am sorry I was so angry.’

‘Magda understood.’ The healer smiled. ‘Now. When does Bird-eye expect to depart?’

‘Bird-eye? Is that what you call Owen? To his face?’

The old woman grinned, deepening the web of wrinkles on her still beautiful face. ‘In affection. When does he depart?’

‘Tomorrow. Early.’

‘Tell Magda all that thou knowest of thy husband’s injuries.’

Bess took a deep breath, then told her all that Piers had seen and heard of Tom’s condition. She went on from there, recounting the accusation that he had killed a man in a fight, or nearly, and had claimed sanctuary in Beverley. She spoke of the steward, his son, and their possible connection to Helena Brimsby, the woman who seemed connected to Tom’s disappearance.

‘Weighty matters,’ said Magda. ‘Bird-eye might need time to convince the authorities to hand Tom over to his custody as captain of York. Magda has no doubt he will succeed, but it will take some days. She will send word to a friend in Beverley, a skilled healer. If Dame Sandrine is not already tending thy husband, she will find a way to take over.’

‘You would do all that?’

Magda tilted her head as if puzzled by the question. ‘Hast thou not sought a healer?’

‘Yes. But I’ve been so unkind—’

‘A mother’s grief is the farthest thing from unkind.’

The new occupant had changed little in the sheriff’s chambers at York Castle, yet Owen found the outer room that was used as a business parlor less welcoming than when Sir Ralph had presided there. A smaller fire, perhaps? Sir John listened to Owen’s mission with increasing dismay.

‘Accusing gentle Tom Merchet of killing a man? Or almost? I cannot believe it. Brimsby, you say? Sir Ralph does not live there, you know. Holcomb is one of his lesser manors. He is in the city at present, did I say?’

‘Sir Ralph? No. You did not.’

‘Yes. Lodging at Micklegate Priory. A blessing, is it not? Our Lord is watching over Merchet.’

No, it was not a smaller fire, but the smaller person seated by it. Yet as much as Owen thought him a dithering fool, he was valued by Lord Neville, according to Sir Ralph, who also warned that the vague, disjointed speech was a ruse to make people underestimate him. It did not make Sir John pleasant company. Owen thanked the man for the good news, eager to remove himself and continue his preparations.

‘I will ride with you until we near Holcomb Manor,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘By the time you have seen Merchet in Beverley and ascertained his circumstances, I hope to have learned something useful about the incident.’ The former sheriff tapped a rolled document on the sill of the window where they stood in the alcove of his room at the abbey. ‘Harry Brimsby’s an indifferent steward, not up to his father’s standard, nothing like him, and I would not mind the opportunity to replace him. I must see to that. All the more important should he die, for the son Carl is a worthless cur.’

‘Should I come to Holcomb the following day?’ Owen asked.

Sir Ralph paused to consider, frowning out at the abbey garden. ‘That might be wise. Your mere presence might sort out Harry Brimsby if he’s able to comprehend. He’s a coward, hides behind the bluster, and something smells wrong in the tale. I don’t believe Harry’s son would stand idly by while his father was beaten. Nor can I imagine Merchet going back there after all this time to pick a fight. Not the Merchet I’ve met. I regret I did not know him at Holcomb. I recall my father’s pleasure about Merchet’s skills as a joiner.’

Going back after all this time. ‘Tom lived and worked at Holcomb Manor? Your father had hired him?’

‘Yes. My father considered him by far the finest joiner the manor ever hired. He took on repairs and improvements to the manor house, the stables. It’s possible Brimsby – Harry’s father – resented that. When he sent Merchet away, accusing him of something that struck my father as petty, Brimsby came close to being sent away himself. My father was that angry.’

‘Of what was Tom accused?’

‘I’m not sure I ever heard the details. Brimsby’s the reason I rarely visit the manor. I did not want to be bothered. A poor decision on my part, and now I must act.’

‘Perhaps not immediately,’ Owen suggested.

‘Of course. I must move with care. Should you have trouble in Beverley, send word to me. I know the minster provost, I can vouch for you. I know the keeper as well, though he is a spineless thing.’

‘I won’t keep you. You need to make your preparations, as do I. We must be ready to depart in the morning.’

As evening closed in Bess stood at the window in her bedchamber, her stomach clenching as she imagined Tom’s beating, his stumbling over the fields to the road and collapsing there, unable to go on. Her darling Tom. She should go with the men to Beverley. Only she could hold him in her arms and assure him that he was no murderer, that he had everything to live for. It was maddening to be told to stay here and do nothing. Hot, angry tears blurred her vision. She cursed Owen for insisting she stay, then begged God to remove the curse for she needed her neighbor’s help, and he was helping.

She blotted her tears with her apron, and saw someone beneath the juniper. She blinked, thinking she was mistaking a tree limb for a person. But the figure remained, small, wrapped in garments that flickered in the twilight. The Riverwoman.

Bess hurried through the kitchen and out into the yard. ‘Dame Magda?’

‘Thou hast good sight.’

‘What are you doing in the city at this hour?’

The healer held out a small pack. ‘Errands. Give this to Bird-eye, for thy husband. Tell him to deliver it to Dame Sandrine. No one else.’

The pack’s heft surprised Bess. ‘I am grateful. But Owen is just within, sitting with his friends. You are welcome to deliver this yourself.’

‘No. Magda saw how thou wert staring out into the abyss, thine eyes blinded by terrible imaginings.’ She held out a small pouch. ‘A pinch of this in brandywine before sleep will give thee a restful night. Thou shalt need it. For while Bird-eye is away, thou hast much to do to prepare for thy husband’s return. Magda will help thee. Thou art also in a good place to hear gossip, and thou knowest those in the city who can answer the questions that arise. Is that not so?’

Was she suggesting, or even encouraging Bess to continue to investigate? ‘Owen has asked me not to poke about for answers.’

‘Well might he ask, but art thou obliged to obey?’

Bess found herself chuckling. Softly, for she did not wish to be discovered out here. ‘You are a tonic for certain, Dame Magda.’ She took the pouch. ‘A pinch in my brandywine?’

‘Just so. Sleep well, Bess Merchet.’

Despite the heavy pack, Bess walked more lightly as she moved through the kitchen to the tavern room. She would not sit idly by while her Tom was in danger.

Satisfied that he had sufficiently discussed with Hempe and Alfred the items he counted on them to pursue while he was gone, Owen looked forward to heading home for an evening with Lucie and the children. He was about to leave when Bess approached, carrying what looked a heavy pack, her shoulders bent to the weight, though by size he would have expected it to be light. Despite the burden her gait was light and she was smiling.

‘I went to Dame Magda earlier to ask if she might help when Tom comes home.’

Bess had gone to Magda?

She was nodding as if he had remarked aloud. ‘Yes, I dared to seek the help of the woman I blamed for so long. She welcomed me into her home and did not hesitate when I asked for help. And she is sending word to a skilled healer in Beverley to take over Tom’s nursing if she’s not already with him.’

‘Take over?’

‘She said this woman, Dame Sandrine, would know how to do that. And you are to give her this pack. Only Dame Sandrine, no one else.’

Magda must share his concern about Tom’s care in Beverley.

‘You look worried.’ She glanced over to Hempe and Alfred. ‘And so do they.’

No point in denying it. ‘Dame Magda must sense that Tom needs a different healer than he has.’

‘We worry, yes,’ said Hempe. ‘But how could she sense it?’

Owen knew better than to wonder about Magda’s ways of knowing. All that mattered was that he trusted her. ‘Whether or not that is so, Magda is ensuring that he’s in good hands. Be easy about that, Bess.’

She nodded. ‘I will. I trust her. And you. I know you will do all you can to protect Tom and bring him home. God grant you a safe journey.’ She wished them all a good night and withdrew to her parlor.

Owen had expected her to add, ‘But you see now why I must accompany you.’ Yet she had not. What had Magda said to Bess? He puzzled over her behavior as he crossed the tavern yard and entered the garden where the twilight reduced the trees and plants to dark, albeit familiar shapes. He breathed in the heavy scent of wet earth and the tang of damp bark, the house beyond alight with the warm fires within.

‘Da!’ Hugh materialized on the path a few paces ahead.

Owen crouched down to him. ‘You startled me.’

‘You weren’t looking.’ Against the soft light from the windows beyond Owen saw the boy shrug. ‘Ma said I could come wait for you. To tell you about the man who watched me today.’

Watched his son. Owen looked round. ‘Where? Here in the garden?’ Hugh nodded. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘You know the gap in the top of the wall behind the garden shed? Where I threw the rock?’

‘I do.’

‘He peered through that, so I could not see much. Brown eyes. I’m sure of that. And I heard him talk to someone. It sounded like when Master Ambrose talked to his gray-haired friend. French, I think.’

Lucie was teaching the children French. ‘Do you think it might have been Master Ambrose’s friend?’ Owen asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What were you doing when they were watching you?’

‘Holding a heavy stick. So I can be strong enough for a real bow.’

‘Did they watch long?’

Hugh nodded. ‘I think they were waiting for someone.’

‘To join them?’

‘No. They thought someone was coming here. I think.’

‘You understood what they said?’

‘A little. I think they were waiting for a man, a friend of yours, and something about a hand. Do you think they meant Master Crispin?’

Crispin Poole had lost not only a hand but also part of an arm in an accident long ago. ‘That is possible. Did you let them know that you saw them?’

‘I pretended I didn’t know they were there. Gwen says grown people don’t think children notice them, and that’s why we make the best spies.’

‘She did, did she? Quite wise.’

‘I wasn’t frightened. I just thought you should know about it.’

‘I am grateful, son. I think it might be important.’

They walked into the kitchen, hand in hand.

‘I told him, Ma.’

Lucie looked up at Owen, who nodded. ‘Hugh knew just what to do,’ he said. ‘I am proud of you, son.’

Later, after engaging in a mock battle with Emma and Hugh, not Gwen, who said she was too mature for such things, then hustling them all up to bed and singing a few Welsh songs, Owen joined Lucie on the settle before the hall fire. Since Hugh told him of the men watching the house he had fought the impulse to rush to the abbey to confront Denis and Bertram and demand they explain themselves. For surely it was them. But tomorrow morning was soon enough.

‘I don’t understand why Denis and Bertram would spy on us,’ said Lucie. ‘And what could they want with Crispin Poole? Something to do with his former allegiance to the Nevilles?’

‘There is another man they might mean. Who lost his right hand.’

She shifted to look at Owen. ‘Martin Wirthir? But why would they think he was here?’

He had been turning over in his mind a possible reason they might think so. Martin, a long-ago friend to the family, a Fleming, was an outlaw in this country for his piracy and connection to the French assistance for Welsh rebels. He was also the man who had saved Jasper when he was orphaned.

‘Could it be that is why Denis is here?’ he said. ‘He is Ambrose’s lover, as was Martin. He was an odd choice for this mission, but that might explain it. And if they’re searching for Martin … Bertram was in Wales with the duke.’

‘Merde,’ Lucie whispered. ‘What will you do?’

‘Confront them as we ride out. I have sufficient men to threaten them.’

‘Have you not enough on your mind?’

‘I will not let it distract me from my mission. Bringing Tom home is my priority.’

Lucie kissed him. ‘You are a good friend.’

‘He is family.’

‘As is Martin.’

About to disagree, Owen realized it was true. ‘Yes.’

Eleven

Confrontations and Investigations

A sharp wind and fine mist of snow coated the travelers on the first hours of their journey. Ned and Denis rode up ahead, Owen behind them with Michaelo and Sir Ralph, Stephen and Bertram behind them, all with their cloaks wrapped tightly and hoods over their hats, no conversations, only things of note called out, or requests to change gait or pause.

The lack of talk suited Owen, who brooded over an early morning confrontation. He’d sent a message to the hospitium telling Denis and Bertram to meet him at his home. Once they arrived, he demanded they explain their spying on his home to his family – Lucie, Jasper, Hugh, Gwen, Emma still drowsing against Lucie, and Kate all gathered in the warm kitchen.

A long silence ensued, in which Denis stole glances at Bertram, who stolidly kept his expression blank, eyes on the kitchen flagstones.

Finally, Denis addressed his companion. ‘A pity my companion has not the courage to speak.’ A shrug. ‘We did not mean to frighten the children. I ask young Hugh his forgiveness.’

‘My da will decide that.’

Owen bit back a smile. Well done, son.

‘As is right, and suggests we should discuss this matter among the three of us.’

Owen shook his head. ‘You will discuss it here.’

With a shrug, Denis said, ‘Then it should be Bertram who speaks. He is the one in Sir Thomas Percy’s household.’

Only then did Owen recall seeing Bertram more recently than his journey to Wales, in Sir Thomas’s company in London. ‘Are you here in service of Sir Thomas, not the Duke of Lancaster, Bertram?’

‘Both,’ he told the flagstones.

‘And I am in Princess Joan’s service, though temporarily serving the duke,’ said Denis.

‘Who ordered the spying?’

‘Bertram will say both, but I do not consider that accurate,’ said Denis.

The two proceeded to argue about who was providing an explanation. At one point, Denis drew a letter from his scrip and handed it to Owen. Bertram attempted to snatch it back, but Owen quietly gave it to Jasper, took Bertram by the shoulders, and shoved him down onto a bench, still holding him as he asked Jasper to describe the contents.

‘The duke informs them that the man they seek has proved himself a friend of the realm, not an enemy. These two are to offer to escort him to the duke for further discussions. He is to be treated not as a prisoner but as an honored guest. And …’ Jasper looked surprised. ‘You won’t believe it. It’s Martin Wirthir. He’s here? In York?’ He looked to the two men, frowning, but excited. ‘Is he?’

‘Answer my son,’ Lucie demanded.

‘If he is, we have not found him. But it is thought he was headed here to seek your protection, Captain,’ said Denis.

So this was the part of their mission they had hidden from him. Owen gripped Bertram’s shoulder. ‘Protection from whom? And for what?’

Bertram lifted his hands up, surrendering.

Owen released his grip and stepped away. ‘So?’

‘He was captured in the channel by Sir Thomas Percy’s men, who were under orders to board suspicious vessels in the waters near Calais, such as the fishing boat on which Wirthir was heading toward the town in the night. When their hails were ignored, Percy’s men grappled the boat. His companion in the boat dove into the water.’

‘Drowned?’

Bertram bowed his head. ‘He was never found.’

Owen did not bother to ask the name, which he knew Martin would not have shared. ‘What was Martin’s purpose in Calais?’

‘He claimed to be headed there to warn the garrison of an attack planned for one of their outposts, and that Owain Lawgoch meant to return to Pembrokeshire with French ships.’

Now Owen began to understand. Sir Thomas had been captured and briefly held captive in Brittany by Owain Lawgoch some years earlier. ‘The latter is not news to Lancaster.’

‘No, but Wirthir suggested a date.’

‘Useful, if accurate. Sir Thomas’s men did not believe he meant to help?’

It was Denis who responded. ‘No. Nor would they listen to my information that made it most unlikely he would be doing this for Lawgoch. When still in France I’d heard that Wirthir had made an enemy of his key man in Wales and was being hunted for execution.’

Owen could guess the name of Martin’s enemy. Hywel. Who had wanted Owen to stay in Wales and fight with him. He felt Lucie’s eyes on him but did not look, knowing she feared this proved what they had long suspected, that the duke knew how close Owen had come to treason.

‘Martin was being hunted?’ Jasper frowned down at the letter. ‘So this proves you were right. That they spoke the truth.’

‘Yes,’ said Denis.

‘And at some point he escaped from Sir Thomas,’ said Owen.

‘Injuring two of his men,’ said Bertram.

‘Or they inflicted injuries on each other to make it look as if he escaped,’ said Denis. ‘Not all Sir Thomas’s men distrusted him.’

Bertram muttered something under his breath.

‘When did you receive this letter?’ Owen asked.

‘On the day of our departure. But Bertram had a different message from Sir Thomas. Bertram?’

Percy’s man looked away as he said, ‘My lord does not trust it, believes the helpful information was a ploy to win our trust, then betray us. And he injured two of his men.’

‘Minor injuries,’ said Denis, winning a hiss from Bertram.

‘Who suggested spying on my family home?’

Bertram faced him as he said, ‘I did.’

‘You expected me to lie about hiding him?’

‘There had been talk … I saw you briefly at Cydweli, and afterward …’

‘You thought that because Hywel had approached me, and because I am Welsh, I would of course betray King Edward, no matter that I returned and have served him, and his family, ever since.’ Owen kept his voice quiet because of the children. Emma was already beginning to fuss and hide her head against Lucie, who softly hummed to calm the little one.

Bertram had gone pale, throwing Denis a pleading glance. ‘Denis agreed to do it my way,’ he whispered.

‘To prove you a fool,’ said Denis with a chilly smile.

‘At the expense of my family,’ said Owen, disgusted with both of them. ‘Go on now, see to your mounts and be ready to depart Walmgate Bar. But don’t expect more help from my company than the safety of a larger group on the road. When we reach Beverley, we part.’ He handed Denis the letter.

Denis tried once more to apologize, but Owen ordered him out.

After which he’d sat down with his family to discuss what they had heard. His greatest concern had been Jasper, who would love nothing more than to see Martin and thank him again for saving his life.

‘I do not wish to see him if he brings trouble,’ said Jasper.

‘I believe it is Percy’s man who brings trouble, and the other pair for whom they search,’ said Lucie.

‘Would he want to see me?’

Hearing the yearning, Owen put his arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘I believe he would. He saw himself in you, a self who had a chance to make better choices.’

Jasper smiled.

Before he departed, Owen had Lucie and Jasper promise to tell Hempe if Martin appeared, and recount what Denis and Bertram had revealed.

Remembering the conversation as he rode toward Beverley, Owen could not decide what he wished for Jasper.

Sir Ralph interrupted his thoughts. ‘Can we trust Lancaster’s men?’

‘On the road, yes, I believe so. And I’d rather they were away from my family in my absence.’

‘Of course. I sent a message to the provost and keeper in Beverley that I am taking care of this. It should help you. But I will accompany you to the town, introduce you to them, and ensure that you receive the help you need if you prefer.’

‘A tempting offer, but I need information. The manor is our best chance for that.’

Magda’s effect on Bess lasted long past the twilight visit, that and the sleeping draft, and she slept through the night, something she had not managed without Tom lying beside her. But she woke in time to see two men calling on Owen in the early morning. One of them looked like Ambrose Coates’ friend, Denis. Later, she’d managed to smile when seeing Owen off on his journey, without a word of complaint that she was not included, and though curious whether his grim expression was about the early visitors she held her tongue, appreciating his effort to smooth his countenance when he saw her in the yard. Lucie would tell her later.

She had hoped Angel and Andrew’s elder sister Issy would present herself this morning, but she had not come. Perhaps tomorrow.

As Bess moved about the tavern, busy even for the usual late morning, she paused to talk to her regulars, who were happy for her, that she’d had news of Tom and that Captain Archer was headed to Beverley to bring him home. All offered prayers for his safe arrival and speedy recovery. All seemed to know the extent of his injuries. But he’s a tough one. The Riverwoman and Dame Lucie will soon see him right. All our family are praying for him. Bless Master Piers. Alcock was the king of the day. Of course there were questions – Beverley? Who would want to beat our Tom? Is it true Sir Ralph Hastings is among the party? Why did Brother Michaelo accompany them? She assured everyone that Captain Archer had it to hand. She had all confidence he would find the curs who beat her husband and see that justice was done. It seemed people did not know of the accusations against Tom. That would change, and the thought of that dampened her mood.

She stood aside for a while to catch her breath near the table where Will Fitch had been complaining to Old Bede about the dangers his daughter and grandson faced lodging next to the widow Cobb. They moved on now to another topic, the new paintings in All Saints Church on North Street.

‘Have you ever seen such colors?’ Will Fitch’s face was alight.

‘Never,’ said Old Bede. ‘I took the little ones to show them and they’ve talked of little else since. Might cheer your daughter to show her.’

Bess made note of that. Perhaps the young man with paint-spattered clothing was working at All Saints? When Mary returned from errands Bess would go round to her friend Maud, the sempster who lived below the widow’s lodging, see what she knew about the young man.

The company halted for food at midday not far from the road in a tumbledown barn that provided some shelter from the snow, Ned and Stephen stationed so they could watch for trouble approaching. Owen trusted the pair, Ned for his skill with a bow and his clear head, Stephen for his fighting skills with either his bare hands or a dagger. Even Michaelo could be counted on if lives depended on him. Bertram could surely hold his own, and Owen had witnessed Denis’s skill in the past. Sir Ralph? His value was in his rank and connections.

Brother Michaelo settled beside Owen. He had protested when Archdeacon Jehannes decided he should represent him if they needed to deal with the provost and canons of the minster, who would be more at ease with a man of the Church, but this morning he’d not complained. ‘Denis de Gaul and Bertram Hawkins.’ Michaelo glanced over to where they sat by the horses, sharing a wineskin, bread, and cheese. ‘Their stated mission, tracking the pair who had attacked the palace of the Savoy, was that perhaps a lie?’

Owen had momentarily wondered that as well. He had heard nothing of a Friar Jerome in York, though Princess Joan had mentioned him in a letter. And John Grey seemed quite real; it felt too much of a coincidence that a man who sounded so like him had recently appeared in York. That he frequented Helena’s lodging might even connect her to the troubles. ‘Then why would they wish to accompany us to Beverley?’

‘Suspecting you’ve hidden Wirthir there?’ Michaelo shook his head. ‘That makes no sense.’

‘No.’

‘Will they accompany us to see Tom?’

‘No. I’ve told them we will part at the gate. If they wish to return with us, they can find us when they’re ready. I cannot trust them.’

‘Nor I.’ Michaelo sat back to finish his winter apple, which he cut into small pieces with a knife.

‘You were worried?’

‘Denis is Ambrose’s love. He might want to ensure Wirthir goes nowhere near the musician. And they betrayed you, spying on your household. I—’

‘Captain!’ Ned called. He and Stephen had put aside their food and picked up their weapons.

Owen strung his bow and joined them.

‘There.’ Stephen pointed.

Three men on horseback had halted on the road, looking around.

‘I don’t like it,’ Ned said softly.

Bertram and Denis joined them, knives drawn.

Leaving the shelter, Owen chose a place where he could see the trio more clearly and watched them inch toward the barn, crouching low and glancing left, right, behind, all holding knives. Young men, one of them perhaps Jasper’s age, the others a little older. As he stepped over a fallen tree, the other two right behind him, Owen shot an arrow over their heads as a warning. The two in the rear stopped, the younger one kept coming forward.

‘Bend down,’ Bertram whispered behind Owen, then threw his knife, hitting the man’s weapon arm. The man dropped his knife and doubled over, holding his forearm, then loped off to join his fellows in retreat. They rode off toward Beverley.

‘You’ve skill with a knife,’ said Owen, turning to Percy’s man.

Bertram bowed and grinned.

‘Thieves who did not expect fighting men,’ said Stephen, with a grunt. ‘Doubt they’ll trouble us again.’

Owen was not so sanguine. The injured one had not halted after the warning, nor had he kept his eyes on the bowman but instead took in all he could. Counting how many in the party? ‘I have a feeling we’ll meet again,’ he said.

Silent until now, Sir Ralph said, ‘I trust we will. One of them was Carl Brimsby. The one with the dark hair.’ Not the injured one. ‘Doubtless the other two are sons of my tenants.’

‘We ride hard now,’ said Owen.

‘Think we can catch them?’ Ned asked.

‘I would like that,’ said Bertram.

‘Or we frighten them by doing what they least expect,’ said Owen.

After marveling at the sempster’s tiny stitches on the child’s garment, a fine soft wool wasted on a young one who would be rolling in the dirt moments after donning it, Bess settled back and gestured toward the ceiling. ‘You had some excitement here the other night.’

Maud chuckled. ‘I knew you’d not come to shower me with praise for my work, old friend.’ She gave a little grunt as she put aside her work, and Bess noticed the silver threads in her dark hair, like herself. She thought of Maud as she was when they first met, almost two decades past. Old friend indeed. ‘I am not one to gossip,’ said Maud. ‘But I have not slept soundly since that woman arrived. Men going up and down the steps, arguing, laughing, a-clattering and a-thumping.’ She leaned closer. ‘Men of all ages, mind you, some ragged and others tidy. And her so clumsy, with gray hair and missing teeth. I told John Moor I’d expected better from my landlord than to subject me to such as her. And Saturday night! First Will Fitch coming to move the young parents to safety, and then Captain Archer’s guard letting that filthy man with the squinty eye go on and on about whatever, I did not listen, and then the shout from above, the thud, and a man clumping down the stairs while laughing like the devil himself.’ A disgusted sigh.

‘And now, peace,’ said Bess.

‘Yes. But for how long? And poor Matt, that innocent lad? I don’t know how I don’t have a bloodstain above my head. They do say it was like walking through a pool of it. Oh, but you found him, didn’t you?’

Bess would rather not relive the experience, but Maud had earned an account. She described her horror in sufficient detail to garner gasps from her hostess, then spoke of the kindness of Stephen – he deserved a good word – and blessed Owen and Lucie for caring for her through the day so she might recover. Maud seemed satisfied.

‘About the men who came and went,’ said Bess, ‘was one of them young, with paint-splattered clothes?’

Maud sat back, her sewing forgotten in her lap. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I need some work done at the tavern and I want to make certain he is not the one I hire.’

‘Well, yes, you want to make sure of that. Let me think. Yes, there was one, not a bad-looking young man. Brown hair and soft brown eyes, nice eyes, nice smile. All his teeth, as far as I could tell. A good height – not so tall as Captain Archer, nor so broad in the shoulders. Quiet. I did not mind when he visited. No loud noises, no loud laughter. But of late he had a look about him, like he was peering over his shoulder. Sometimes he’d go up and come right back down, keeping to the shadows as he scurried away.’ How she accomplished so much work with all that spying, Bess could not guess. ‘Bless you, Maud. I will know to send him away if he appears.’

From Maud’s, she crossed over Ouse Bridge and turned right into North Street toward All Saints. She had not been this way in a long while and felt a little shiver of memory. She had lodged in the parish when first in York, and had spent many an hour in the church praying – for strength, for both her late husbands’ souls, that she would find a way to provide for her children. Stepping within, she whispered prayers for all three husbands, and for a moment felt peace embrace her. But eventually the smell of fresh paint overwhelming the lingering aroma of incense from the last mass reminded her of her purpose. She followed the sound of men talking down the aisle to her right and found a pair discussing something in a pot, taking turns sniffing and shaking their heads. They wore smock-like garments over their clothes – undyed, but covered in all the colors in a rainbow and more. Neither of them fit Maud’s description, both older, for one thing, and fatter.

‘Pray forgive my interruption, but … Oh!’ She stepped back to admire the explosion of color on the wall before her, sinners writhing in the hands of a devil of terrifying size, inspiring both wonder and horror. ‘Blessed Mary and all the saints!’ Her exclamation was no act. She gazed on it in awe. Though she wondered at Old Bede subjecting his grandchildren to it.

‘Most appreciated, goodwife,’ said one of the men.

She turned to find them both smiling at her, and a lively conversation followed in which she managed to insert a few questions about how just two of them did all that, did no one do their fetching and carrying and cleaning up, which led to complaints about their journeyman disappearing days earlier.

‘When we heard about a young man falling from an upper window we thought he might be Hal,’ said one of the men, ‘but we learned differently.’

‘Your journeyman? He knew that woman, the widow Cobb?’ she asked. Of course they would have heard all about her.

‘She pestered him now and again, did she not?’ one asked the other. ‘He did not like her coming here, but said she was kin, and what could he do.’

‘Did anyone else come round pestering him?’

That made them wary, so she played the flustered woman caught gossiping, prayed they forgave her, praised their work once more, and hurried away.

Kin. Owen would be pleased to hear of that. Bess crossed the bridge nodding absently to the people wishing Tom well, hoping that the captain brought him home before the week was out, offering prayers. Sometimes she wished she lived in London, where surely one must be able to cross the city without meeting everyone they knew.

Back in the tavern, Mary introduced Issy, whom she had already shown how to do a quick clean of a table in between patrons. A wraith-like girl, she would take some feeding for the strength to carry out her chores.

‘Come here, into the light, so I can better see you,’ said Bess. ‘And do lift up your head. I won’t bite. Though I will let you know if you’ve disappointed me in your work.’

Issy’s long curly hair was damp and showed comb marks, doubtless from her mother making her presentable. Bess liked that. Soft eyes, soft chin, a button nose.

‘Let me see your hands.’

Short-fingered, calloused, dirt in the nails but not bitten down.

‘You are not a stranger to work, I see, Issy.’

‘No, mistress.’

‘But you must be on time to help ready the tavern.’

‘I am sorry I was late. My brother told me how to find you but I still lost my way.’ Issy bowed her head, but not before Bess saw the blush. ‘I missed the turning – there are so many people – and the one I took curved round and there were men in the alleyways watching me—’

Grapecunt Lane, Bess guessed. Poor child mistaken for a young whore.

‘Tomorrow I will be here just after the gate opens. I promise.’

‘When you leave today, my nephew Tupper will walk you to the gate, show you how easy it is. Have you broken your fast?’

‘I had some bread and—’ She looked to Mary.

‘And I told her that a hard day’s work is best on a full stomach,’ said Mary. ‘She’s had some of Cook’s new stew.’

‘Good.’ Bess smiled at the girl. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Issy.’

Twelve

Intruders in York, a Meeting in Beverley

Tossing and turning in the early hours, unable to quiet her thoughts, Bess bolted out of bed at once when Tupper shouted from somewhere in the yard. She had feared that knowledge of Owen’s absence might make thieves bold. Shoes, cloak, and she rushed out. Tupper stood in the stable doorway holding a lantern, hair tousled from sleep.

‘What happened here?’

‘I woke and heard a strange sound, then a man’s voice, cursing. Whoever it was ran off soon as they saw me. Might have been a dream?’ Tupper had been edgy ever since the unexplained digging in the yards. ‘Bailiff’s guard did not come to see what it was.’

Bess patted Tom’s nephew’s shoulder and went looking for the guard George Hempe had set to watch the house at night. She found him slumped over by the tavern door, fast asleep. Poking him with her shoe, she ignored his sputtered apologies and told him he’d best not leave before she collected him in the morning.

Not waiting until full dawn, Bess marched the humbled guard to the bailiff’s house. Hempe answered the door barefoot, with hair askew and voice husky with sleep.

‘This one’s worthless as a guard,’ said Bess. ‘My nephew Tupper heard a trespasser in the yard last night while this one slept.’

‘Lord help me.’ Hempe pushed his face close to the man and shouted, ‘Explain yourself, Robert.’

The man shook his head. ‘I can’t. Swear I was awake. And then she was shaking me.’

‘Go to the castle and await me there. And if you’re sleeping …’ Hempe almost poked him in the eye. The feckless fool stumbled off. ‘I’ll send two men tonight, and they will stay awake. Come in out of the morning damp, Bess, tell me all that you know.’

‘I’ve a tavern to run. You’ll need to speak with Tupper. He’s the one who heard a stranger’s voice, and with Tom and the captain away, and the digging not so long ago …’ She stopped. ‘Tupper admits it might have been a dream.’

Hempe gave her a sad smile. ‘We all expect the worst right now. But you were right to bring Robert to me. That cannot stand. I will be there soon to talk to Tupper.’

‘See that you are.’ Bess gave a nod and departed down Low Petergate toward home.

But at the crossing, instead of turning left toward home she turned right, through the minster gates to the minster, for her heart told her that the best thing she could do for Tom, beyond arranging for Magda’s care, was to pray. And the minster was the place for serious prayer, prayer most likely to reach heaven.

When Jasper did not appear in the kitchen to break his fast, Lucie took bread and cheese and a small jug of ale to him. The workroom door was unlocked, but her call was not answered. She checked the shop, then climbed up to his chambers. Not there. Nor was his cloak on the hook. Putting the food and drink aside for him, she set about the task of opening the shop for the day.

As Lucie swept the lane in front of the apothecary Bess approached from Stonegate. At this hour she would usually be carrying baskets of bread, but she was empty-handed, her face creased with worry. Thinking about Tom and weary with the extra work of running the tavern without him, Lucie guessed.

Bess put on a cheerful face as Lucie greeted her. ‘I cannot remember the last time I saw you doing this.’

‘Gwen is helping Kate with Emma and Hugh, and Jasper is out, so it fell to me to open the shop.’ Lucie listened to Bess’s account of the nighttime intruders and promised to tell Owen as soon as he returned. ‘Not too many days hence, I pray.’

‘May that be so. But anything might delay them, worst of all my Tom being in no condition to travel.’ Bess’s voice faltered.

Lucie dropped the broom to embrace her friend. ‘He is in good hands with Owen, and, when he returns, with you and Magda.’ She stepped back, holding Bess at arms’ length. ‘She will be here?’

‘Magda will, yes. She is so generous.’ Bess dashed away a tear. ‘All these years, blaming her, I might have …’ She shook her head. ‘You were right all along. She is more than kind, there is a peace abiding within her that heartens me like nothing else. I am glad Tom will have the benefit of her presence.’

Lucie started to take up her broom, but Bess just stood there, head tilted.

‘Too early for Jasper to be calling on the fair Juliana.’

Lucie agreed. She suspected something else. But she would keep that to herself.

For a while Owen’s party had caught glimpses of the three men ahead, but they must have left the road for they never caught up with them despite riding hard. They spent the night in the home of a family happy to provide food and warmth in exchange for the news from York and Brother Michaelo’s blessing, giving up their beds to Sir Ralph, Owen, and Brother Michaelo. The others slept with the family and the horses in a snug stable.

Leaving before dawn, they parted with Sir Ralph mid-morning near a narrow track that led to his manor and reached Beverley before the noon bells. Inside the gates Bertram and Denis went their own way, while Stephen and Ned headed off to arrange for lodgings and a cart in which to carry Tom home, and Owen and Brother Michaelo followed Piers Alcock’s directions to his cousin Nicholas’s home.

When a dark-haired man with a warm smile greeted them at the door, Owen recognized Nicholas Alcock as a regular lodger at the York. That explained his kind hospitality.

‘Call me Nick. Everyone does.’

He showed them a screened area where Tom slept in what looked a comfortable bed. His first glimpse of Tom’s injuries sickened Owen. If he looked this bad after a week of care it had been a vicious, brutal attack. Beside him, Michaelo whispered a prayer. A young man sat with Tom, speaking softly of everyday matters. Owen guessed with his dark hair and soft eyes he was Nick’s son.

They withdrew to talk without disturbing Tom, sitting on benches by the hall fire.

‘The midwife Dame Sandrine suggested that it might ease his mind if we talk to him about ordinary things, interesting facts about Beverley, what goods might be found at market this time of year, that sort of thing,’ Nick said. ‘So my family’s taken turns. Except for the little ones who don’t know how to speak softly, for we’re to talk even when he seems asleep. Doubtless we’ve bored him with our patter, but he’s smiled, even chuckled once or twice, so that’s a good thing.’

Remarkable in his state. ‘Dame Sandrine is not here?’ Owen asked.

‘No. She said she would return later to make him comfortable for the night.’

Owen introduced Brother Michaelo as his secretary. ‘We are here to discover the truth of what happened to Tom Merchet. Sir Ralph Hastings is at Holcomb and has sent a message to the keeper and the minster provost that he is seeing to this.’

Their host visibly relaxed. ‘I am relieved to hear that. The keeper and provost believe my kindness is misplaced. But I could not turn Tom away. He and Bess have been good to me when I’ve lodged at the tavern. And his injuries – I feared he could not survive them. I prayed my cousin Piers was right when he said you would know what to do.’

‘Does Tom know of what he is accused?’

‘Of stabbing the steward Harry Brimsby, yes. I regret that he was told. I had asked the minster provost and the town keeper not to disturb him, and instructed all in the household to say nothing, let him heal. But Goodwife Marietta, who cared for him the first few days …’ Nick closed his eyes for a moment. ‘That foolish woman told him. Left him weeping when she went home for the night. He swore he had not harmed Brimsby. Gave his son Carl a bloody lip, nothing more.’

‘So they had argued.’

‘Yes, but Tom walked away when he saw it was pointless. He remembers little else until he woke here.’

‘Did he explain the argument?’

‘No, and I have not pressed him.’

‘Is the midwife’s indiscretion the reason Dame Sandrine now cares for him?’

‘No. The day after she left him weeping she sent word that she had no more time for him. I was glad to be rid of her. Dame Sandrine has done far more in the few days she’s cared for him.’

Owen did not ask how Sandrine was engaged. As Magda’s friend, he suspected she had her ways, and it was best not to question them.

‘The keeper and provost agreed to leave him in peace?’

‘To their credit, they have. Had it been Sir Ralph Hastings accusing Merchet it might be otherwise, but Brimsby’s son Carl, well, he’s a young hothead and most often the one accused. That, and the coroner was not called to the manor, so there is no official record of his father’s death. We have only his word that his father’s injuries were fatal, or rather he sent one of the manor tenants to report the attack to the bailiff.’

‘Curious,’ said Owen. A quite different tale from that told by young Carl was forming in Owen’s mind. ‘The bailiff’s name?’

‘Sam Cropper. Lives just within the main gates, on the right.’

‘Thank you for all you have done for Tom.’

‘He is a good man, Captain.’

‘I would like to sit with Tom for a moment.’

‘Of course.’ Nick escorted him back to the screened area, motioning to his son to come away.

Michaelo took a seat in a corner, withdrawing pater noster beads.

Tom lay quietly. His condition was as Piers had described, though some of the bruises on his face were fading to a sickly yellow. Owen’s gut twisted to see his indomitable friend so diminished.

‘Owen?’ Tom regarded him with his unbandaged eye.

A relief to be recognized. ‘I am here. Benedicite, my friend.’ Owen took the seat the young man had vacated. ‘You look worse than I did when I earned my patch. Bess will find it attractive.’

Tom touched his own patch and smiled weakly. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I have come to take you home.’

‘No!’ The effort to shout brought on a wheezing cough that clearly caused pain, and Owen reached to support him while he fought for control.

In the doorway Nick said, ‘He must not be upset.’

Owen held up a hand, assuring him that he understood. ‘Forgive me, Tom. I meant only to comfort you.’

‘I am … danger to Bess.’

‘She is safe in York, I promise. I have men watching the tavern day and night.’

‘Bless you. Best I stay here.’

They would argue about that later. ‘Do you know who did this?’

‘No.’

‘I understand you walked away from Harry Brimsby without engaging.’

‘I hit his son. Bloody lip.’ A long breath. ‘Nothing more.’

His son, not Harry. ‘And you walked away uninjured?’

‘Son punched me. Broke my nose?’ Tom blinked his good eye. ‘Someone did.’

‘Do you remember anything after leaving Harry and Carl?’

Tom closed his eye for a moment. ‘Walked away. No use talking. Did not hear them coming …’ He was breathing shallowly.

Owen pressed his shoulder. ‘I won’t ask you to tell me about it now. But it would be good to know how many attacked you.’

‘More than one.’ Tom closed his eye and lay back against the pillows. ‘Remember little.’

Owen sniffed the dregs in a bowl on the small table beside the bed.

‘Watered wine,’ said Nick. ‘Shall I call for more?’

Owen rose. ‘Thank you, yes.’

Michaelo approached the bed. ‘Might I sit with you a while?’

Tom opened his eye. ‘Is that Brother Michaelo? Came along?’

‘I am here with Archdeacon Jehannes’s blessings and good wishes,’ said Michaelo. ‘And I would be happy to tell you all the news of York.’ He nodded to Owen. ‘Feel free to go about the town a while.’

It would be useful to see the bailiff, and sit in a tavern and hear the gossip. ‘I will not be long. Tom, rest all you can.’ He hoped to leave in a few days.

Nick accompanied Owen out into the hall. ‘Might I help with anything else?’

‘A tavern where I might hear some gossip. And where might I find the midwife Marietta?’

Nick recommended a tavern nearby. ‘Marietta lives not far from there. Three houses down the alley to the right, go left, small house with a dying tree. You’ll know it.’

‘Do you know a John Grey, and a woman, Helena, who walks with some difficulty?’

‘I do. John and Helena Grey – my wife says it’s rumored they are not truly wed. Neither are here at present. John for a good while. She left maybe a month past. Are they involved with Tom’s trouble?’

‘Would that surprise you?’

‘Not one whit. Bad seeds, both of them. They’ve not been here long, the sort who come to Beverley hoping their enemies will think they’ve been granted sanctuary. The curse of being a sanctuary town. More theft since they arrived and everyone’s glad they’ve gone, but fear they’ll return.’

‘Were you aware that Helena is Harry Brimsby’s sister?’

‘You’re mistaken. She’s said to have died long ago.’

So that was how the family had covered up her disappearance. ‘Illness?’

‘I’ve no idea. As I said, long ago.’

To Owen’s surprise he found Sam Cropper, the bailiff, sitting by the fire in his home rather than in his shop on the street, the clerk implying it was usually so. Cropper was whittling a small boat, presumably for the little boy crawling about the modest but comfortable hall. He provided little information.

‘I took the message, delivered it to the keeper. Not my job to question whether Dugger knew aught about what he said. I take my orders from the keeper.’

‘Who told you to let Merchet be seen to in Alcock’s home?’

‘The keeper. Said it was not his problem if Alcock wanted to make an enemy of Brimsby.’

‘Or Sir Ralph Hastings?’

‘We see little of him.’

Owen left none the wiser except for the name of the man who had reported the supposed attack, and headed for the midwife’s house. Nick had been right, the dying tree marked the modest dwelling, the tips of its bare branches seeming imbedded in the roof. The door swung open at Owen’s knock. Light glimmered from within.

‘Goodwife Marietta?’ he called softly.

‘She is gone.’ A man’s voice, choked with emotion.

‘Do you know when she’ll return?’

‘When the dead rise at the resurrection.’

A man sat on a stool holding the hand of a woman lying on a pallet by the fire in the center of the room, the embers giving off sufficient light to illuminate them both. Owen was struck by the woman’s visage, contorted in pain. Past pain.

It took some doing to gain the man’s trust, but with the mention of Nick Alcock and Sir Ralph he invited Owen in and nodded toward a table near the door.

‘I was away last night till late. When I came home it looked like someone had been here with her. Two bowls on the table. Marietta was on the floor, twisting and shrieking, holding her hands to her ears. I dragged the pallet off the bed box and lifted her onto it, tried to calm her. I wanted to go for help but she could not settle. And then she lay still. No breath. No heartbeat. My Marietta was gone.’ He bowed his head.

Foxglove? Owen examined the cups, empty. ‘Did you drink any?’

‘They were wiped clean already.’

‘Had she been ill? Perhaps her heart?’

‘No. Not so young as she was, more tired after a birthing, but still working. She was caring for that man Alcock is sheltering. Said he was dying, so there was little she could do. Did not spend long with him. How could this happen? My Marietta.’ His voice was gravelly with his grieving.

Owen said a few pointless words of condolence and was leaving when he noticed a woman in the doorway.

‘I’m here to prepare Marietta for burial, John,’ she called out. ‘She brought my children into this world.’

‘Did you see anyone come to Goodwife Marietta’s door last night?’ Owen asked her.

The woman glanced at him, then John, who said, ‘He is trying to help. Did you see who came?’

‘No. Is it important?’

‘It might save lives,’ said Owen.

John gave a little cry. ‘My Marietta was murdered?’

More pain for the grieving man, but necessary. ‘I think it possible.’

The woman knelt to the man. ‘I will ask others nearby, John, I promise, and I’ll tell Bailiff Cropper if I hear aught.’

‘I would ask that you also leave a message with Nick Alcock.’ Owen nodded to her, to John, and went to the door.

‘Does this have to do with the beaten taverner from York?’ she asked.

‘Possibly,’ said Owen.

‘A bad business, that. I warned her. Midwifery is respectable, but tending a violent man …’ She shook her head.

Her opinion was of no concern to Owen. As he departed he overheard the two.

‘Should we not wait for the coroner?’ asked John.

‘For a woman who sickened? He’ll see no reason to come for hours, or days, maybe. And what’s he going to say but “she’s dead”?’

‘But she might have been poisoned.’

‘He won’t care.’

A common complaint about coroners. Owen headed back down the alleys to the tavern that Alcock had recommended, alert for signs of trouble, the midwife’s death suggesting Tom’s beating was but a part of something larger.

Chapter Thirteen

A Tale Begun

Ned and Stephen were sitting at a table near the tavern door when Owen arrived, Ned watching the room, Stephen the street.

Owen eased down on the bench, glad of the chance to sit. ‘Did Nick Alcock direct you here?’

‘Recommended by the stable owner for lodgings,’ said Ned. ‘But Alcock’s asked that we lodge with him.’ Good plan. ‘He said you were headed this way.’

‘What about the cart and horse?’

‘One will be available for the journey back to town,’ said Stephen.

‘For a good deal of coin,’ Ned added. ‘Nor was the tavern going to be cheap.’

They were trouble, and only coin would make helping them worthwhile. So be it.

‘You look grim,’ said Stephen. He called out to the taverner for another tankard.

The taverner was there before Owen decided what to tell his men first.

‘Captain Archer of York, is it? I’ve heard tales about you,’ said the taverner. ‘It’s an honor to have you in my humble inn.’

Owen tasted the ale, nodded.

‘Not as fine as Tom Merchet’s at the York, I’m told,’ the taverner said, ‘but it serves.’

‘It does indeed. Time to talk?’

‘About?’

‘John and Helena Grey.’

A sniff of disgust. ‘That pair. Trouble from the moment they set foot in Beverley. Thefts. Brawls. Pity marriage didn’t change him.’

‘You knew him before?’

A nod. ‘And his brother, Jacoby and Willoby, we called them, a nasty pair. They left after Willoby said he had a recipe for brewing a fine ale and he knew someone who could help him use it to make his fortune. No one believed it. Too many brawls, too many head bashings. Willoby couldn’t remember what he’d done the day before. We’re lucky he’s not about. His brother and his wife are bad enough. Pray they don’t return. It’s been quiet since they disappeared.’

‘You think they’re gone for good?’

‘As to that, I could not say. But their serving woman and cook have gone to other households.’

‘Anyone who might know their plans?’

‘No one willing to talk about it. They have spies throughout the town. Talk calls down trouble.’

‘Theft, brawls – and murders?’

The taverner glanced round, shrugged.

‘Do you know of any connection between the Greys and the midwife Marietta?’

‘Helena went to her about her stumbling, but nothing helped. The midwife giving you trouble with Merchet?’ He kept his voice low.

‘She’s no longer seeing to him.’ Owen said no more. The taverner would hear the news soon enough.

‘Better off, no doubt.’ The taverner nodded to them and went on to fill tankards at other tables.

Alone with his men, Owen told them of the midwife’s death and what he’d learned from Tom and Alcock. ‘If Dame Sandrine agrees, I mean to remove Tom to Holcomb Manor in the morning.’

Stephen nodded.

‘What now?’ asked Ned.

‘Back to Alcock’s house. I want to talk to Dame Sandrine, learn what I can about Marietta.’

‘Dead?’ Alcock crossed himself. ‘God grant her peace.’

‘How did you choose her to see to Tom?’

‘I did not, as such. She came to the house, said the bailiff told her we would need a healer.’

Interesting. ‘Had she seen to your family before?’

‘Not that I recall. My wife trusts Dame Sandrine as midwife. For other matters, an apothecary or a midwife.’

‘But not Marietta.’

‘Margaret is the one who sees to all that. Let me call her.’ Nick went through a short passage to what Owen guessed was the kitchen and returned with a petite woman with lively eyes and a bright smile.

‘Dame Margaret. I am grateful for all you’ve done for Tom. And for welcoming my party.’

‘You are most welcome, Captain. Caring for Tom is the right thing to do. He and Dame Bess have been good to my husband over the years. Nick says you asked about Marietta. An odd woman. As Nick told you, she came to us, said she was here to help the York taverner. I’d worried the accusations might keep people away so I was relieved.’

‘I understand. And nothing seemed awry?’

‘Well—’

‘She was in and out a lot, forgetting things at home,’ said Nick. ‘We would not have called her in again, God forgive me for speaking so of the dead.’ He crossed himself.

Margaret placed a hand on Nick’s arm. ‘Dead? Marietta is dead?’

‘Oh, my Maggie.’ Nick put a hand over hers. ‘Forgive me. I forgot to say. Yes, the captain found her at her home.’

Margaret crossed herself. ‘Had she been attacked like Master Tom?’

‘No. A seemingly peaceful death,’ said Nick, glancing at Owen, who nodded. No need to go into detail.

‘Was there a reason you had not called on Goodwife Marietta before?’ Owen asked.

‘Only that no one among my family or friends recommended her. But … God help me, did she harm Master Tom?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are we in danger?’ She looked from him to Nick and back.

‘I do not know, but we accept your invitation to lodge here tonight and will protect you while Tom is in your home.’

She managed a timorous smile. ‘Bless you, Captain. I should return to the children.’ With a nod to both, she withdrew.

Nick took a deep breath. ‘I am grateful. I should tell you, I had visitors while you were out, a pair who claimed to be in the Duke of Lancaster’s guard and traveling in your company. They asked whether I knew anything about a Friar Jerome newly come to town. I said I had no reason to know a friar’s business. Do you know these men, one French, gray-haired, gracious, the other a soldier through and through.’

‘I do, and we did travel together.’

‘They said you are needed back in York to keep the king’s peace. That you mean to take Tom home in the next few days. Is that your wish? He’s still so weak.’

Though it was true, Owen wondered why they had mentioned it to Nick. ‘As soon as he is sufficiently recovered to make the journey, yes. Goodwife Marietta’s death makes me think his being here is dangerous for him and your family.’

‘You understand that beyond the two-mile markers he forfeits the protection of sanctuary, which might protect him while he is here. I know that sanctuary has been withheld until his mind is clearer, but his would-be attackers might not know that.’

Alcock had thought this through. But so had Owen. ‘I understand.’

‘So be it. I know you mean the best for Tom.’ Alcock nodded toward the screened area. ‘Dame Sandrine awaits you. She can tell you how soon he might be ready.’

Brother Michaelo sat on a bench near the entrance to the screened area, bowed over pater noster beads. He glanced up as Owen settled beside him.

‘Has Tom said any more?’

‘No. The healer is changing his bandages. I heard you tell our host that you think the healer was poisoned?’

‘I believe she’d been sent to slow Tom’s healing, or perhaps hasten death, and was silenced when she tried to walk away. I may be wrong, but …’

‘I do not like that it was the bailiff who sent her. Is the keeper not to be trusted?’

‘He’s not approached us, which means to me he’s washed his hands of the situation, whether for fear or disinterest in personal battles. The bailiff was acting for others.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I need to hear what Sir Ralph has learned, and talk to Harry Brimsby’s son. I hope to move Tom to the manor tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘If Dame Sandrine says Tom can make the journey, yes. He’s not safe here.’

‘Two deaths now, counting Matt in York, and two badly injured men, Tom and Jed, three if Brimsby’s son is telling the truth. All connected?’

‘I think it likely.’

A rustle of skirts. ‘Captain Archer, I am Dame Sandrine.’ Dark eyes, dark hair, a sudden, radiant smile. ‘At last I meet Dame Magda’s good friend. May I interrupt, Brother Michaelo?’

‘Of course. I know you wish to speak with the captain.’

She touched Owen’s arm. ‘Come. You will find your friend more comfortable. And then we can talk.’

Owen studied Sandrine as he accompanied her into the improvised sickroom. Her dove-gray clothing was well made, of good cloth, her thick hair caught up in a silver crispinette, no ornamentations. The simple clothing accentuated her graceful movement. She had a presence like Lucie’s, a woman comfortable in herself.

‘Master Tom’s bandages are lighter now. Less restricting. Tom,’ she said softly, ‘your friend is back.’

Tom opened his eye, blinked a few times. ‘Owen.’ A small smile.

‘How is your hand?’ Sandrine asked.

‘I …’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘I can move them. Bless you.’ He repeated the motion.

‘Letting the blood move through will speed the healing. The bandage will keep the movement within safe bounds.’

‘Are you in much pain?’ Owen asked.

‘Much less now. Dame Sandrine is an angel.’

She laughed softly. ‘I am but a healer, Master Tom, nothing more.’

‘I did not say. But I am glad … you are here,’ said Tom.

‘As am I, my friend.’

‘The captain and I need to talk,’ said Sandrine. ‘But we will be near, in the hall, and will return soon.’

‘Bless you,’ Tom said again, his voice but a whisper.

They settled at a slight distance from Brother Michaelo, who had resumed his prayer.

Owen told her of Marietta’s poisoning.

A slight tilt of the head. ‘I see.’ No emotion.

‘You are not surprised.’

‘When I examined Master Tom he had been given nothing to ease swelling, bleeding, pain, and the bandage around his torso was so tight he had difficulty breathing. The same with his hands, his fingers bound so tightly he lost all feeling in them.’ A sorrow emanated from her as she spoke. ‘She also kept him far drowsier than necessary. Marietta had little skill, but this was not her way.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘She had been directed to abuse him. A most cruel task. When she walked away I feared for her. I had intended to send her away, hoping she might not then be punished.’

‘Do you have any thought about who might have sent her?’

‘That is not my role.’

Much as Magda would say. ‘Had you seen Tom before she departed?’

A nod. ‘Dame Magda had asked me to check him. I called when I knew Marietta was elsewhere.’

‘Did the Alcocks wonder why?’

‘They told me she seemed to be doing nothing for him, that in fact he was worse, and asked me to take over.’

‘I see. Had she waited but a while …’

‘Poor woman.’

‘Yes. This changes my plan. I would like to move him to Holcomb Manor tomorrow. Would you accompany us? Care for him while we are there? I would hope to spend but a day at the manor, to depart for York Friday morning.’

‘So soon.’ She bowed her head. ‘I will do all that I can to accommodate you, Captain.’

‘You agree he’s in danger here?’

‘I do. And it’s clear he yearns for his wife, whom he speaks of with deep abiding love. He will heal completely with his Bess beside him, and in Dame Magda’s care.’

‘He fears his return will endanger Bess.’

‘Not with you and Dame Magda watching over them.’ She looked deep into Owen’s eye. ‘You know this.’

So like Magda. Which reminded him. He fetched Magda’s pack. ‘Magda prepared this for you.’

Sandrine took it with reverence. ‘It will be an honor to work with Dame Magda’s preparations. She is most generous.’

‘Might I ask how you know her?’

‘We have crossed paths from time to time.’

‘How did she get word to you so quickly?’

Her eyes were merry. ‘You of all people must know that Dame Magda has her ways.’

‘I do. But I am forever asking.’

‘To no avail.’

They sat quietly for a moment, a comfortable pause. But time pressed on Owen.

‘I am sorry for the haste.’

‘I will sleep on a pallet beside Tom until he is ready to return home, and prepare him as best I can. Dame Magda’s remedies will help.’

‘I am grateful.’

She rose. ‘Now let us give him the good news.’

‘He did not seem happy at the prospect when I first mentioned it. Endangering Bess …’

‘I believe Brother Michaelo shifted his thinking about that.’ She looked to Michaelo, who glanced up. Owen guessed the prayer had been abandoned to listen to their conversation. ‘You have been good for him.’

‘Beneath his fear for his wife he yearns for home,’ said Michaelo. ‘I merely reminded him that he could trust the captain to keep them both safe.’

Owen prayed he could.

Leaving Sandrine to acquaint herself with Magda’s preparations, Owen and Michaelo returned to Tom, who seemed asleep, his breathing calm and unobstructed. But as soon as Owen touched his forehead, silently saying a prayer of thanks, Tom opened his eye.

‘She is an angel.’

‘She comes with Magda’s blessing, so, in a way, she is,’ said Owen, grinning as he imagined Magda laughing at that. ‘Are you able to talk?’

‘If you help me drink. Honey water.’

Michaelo fetched extra cushions from a bench while Owen supported Tom, then eased him back against the cushions. Tom drank, with Owen’s help.

‘Better?’ he asked.

A lopsided grin. ‘There is more to it than honey and water, I think.’

No doubt. ‘It’s good to see you smile.’

‘How is my Bess?’

‘Worried. But supported by my family, her family, and Magda Digby.’

‘Bess and Magda?’

‘Can you believe it? Bess went to Magda’s home to ask for her help in bringing you back to health, and Magda has comforted her.’

‘A miracle!’ He sighed. ‘But I seek sanctuary. Here.’

‘The provost does not believe it appropriate for you, Tom.’ Owen looked to Michaelo.

‘You are not being sought by the law,’ said Michaelo. ‘There is no proof of your doing anything to warrant a need for sanctuary. Unless you have neglected to confess something to us? Murder? Serious theft?’

Tom did not look at them as he said, ‘No. Not at the manor.’

So in the past?

‘Then what you need is the protection that the captain is offering,’ said Michaelo. ‘I should say that the provost and keeper seem to fear your being here will bring trouble to Beverley, a feud between you and Harry Brimsby.’

‘Feud,’ Tom muttered.

Owen added, ‘Bess wants you home, Tom. As I told you, she and Magda are preparing to care for you there. Honey water?’ He helped him to more while Michaelo plumped his pillows again. When all was settled, Owen said, ‘Sir Ralph Hastings is at Holcomb Manor trying to learn the truth. Could you help, Tom?’ When his friend’s eye went wide he quickly said, ‘I will not push you. But I would be grateful if you could help me understand how you are connected to Helena Brimsby, now Grey, and her brother and her current husband.’

Tom took a shuddering breath. ‘How do you know—’

‘This is Owen,’ said Michaelo, gently touching Tom’s hand, ‘of course he has turned over every stone trying to find out what was happening, why you vanished.’

Bowing his head, Tom gave a little sob. ‘I am ashamed.’

‘There is no need,’ said Owen. ‘We are your friends, here to help you. But we need to understand how to protect you.’

‘I don’t know,’ Tom whispered. ‘I don’t know how you can.’

‘Can you tell me why you went to see Harry Brimsby?’

For a long while, Tom sat with head bowed, breathing so unsteadily that Sandrine, who had slipped in to sit in a corner, approached to check him. She placed her right hand on his heart and closed her eyes, murmuring something Owen could not understand. Tom’s breathing steadied, calmed. She touched his brow, then slipped back into the shadows.

Michaelo looked at Owen. ‘Like Magda,’ he mouthed.

Just like her.

‘He was said to be. Telling lies. Blaming me. For something I did not do.’ Tom paused for a few breaths. ‘I went to. Ask him. Tell the truth.’

So many questions. What truth? Why now? Had Helena spurred him on? But Tom was tiring. ‘What did he say?’

‘He spit at me.’

‘And then?’

‘I warned him. Helena’s husband threatened. Tell the whole tale. People would ask. Who he buried. If not Helena.’

That was new. ‘But in York people knew she was a Brimsby.’

‘I only know. Grey means to ruin me. Ruin Bess. And Harry.’

‘John Grey is a threat to Harry Brimsby?’

Tom closed his eyes. When the silence dragged on, Owen looked to Sandrine.

‘He is weak, and your questions disturb him.’

‘Perhaps I should—’

Tom opened his eyes and reached for Owen’s hand. ‘I want to help. I did not harm Harry. Son punched me. I punched him. Then left.’

‘Where were you when the men attacked you?’

A frown of concentration twisted his still-swollen face. ‘Not far. Left him. At twilight. Remember stumbling. Dark.’

‘Did Helena tell you her husband is a threat to Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘To threaten me. If he talks. My part.’

‘What part?’

Tom tried to turn his head away. ‘No.’

‘Why did you give her the ring, Tom?’

‘How do you …?’

‘I found it hidden with other stolen items in her lodging.’

‘Bess knows?’

Owen bowed his head. ‘Yes.’

‘No,’ he groaned. ‘She will think.’ He fought for breath. ‘Betrayed.’

‘Did your former partner Jules have anything to do with this?’

‘Jules?’ Tom muttered. ‘Dead. Some years.’

‘If he were alive—’

‘No more now. Tired.’

Owen had pushed too hard. ‘Forgive me. What I meant to tell you is that we will be leaving for Holcomb Manor on the morrow. Then home in a day or two.’

Tears. ‘Holcomb,’ Tom whispered. ‘No.’

‘You will stay in the manor house. With Dame Sandrine looking after you. We will all be there – me, Michaelo, Stephen, and Ned.’

‘So many?’

‘Would you like Michaelo to stay with you now?’

‘Dame Sandrine.’

As Owen walked away past Sandrine she touched his arm. ‘Do not blame yourself. I admire your gentle patience.’

He felt anything but patient. If all went as he hoped, they would be leaving for York on Friday and he had learned precious little.

When they were out of earshot Brother Michaelo said, ‘I agree with her. We need information for the safety of so many people, but you did not push him. You are a good friend.’

‘Is that the right role to play? Will it help prevent more deaths?’ Owen did not feel he knew enough to do that.

Michaelo had no answer.

Fourteen

An Old Friend

In the hall a table had been set for a late dinner. Owen’s stomach grumbled and he realized he’d eaten nothing but some porridge in the early morning. A girl about Gwen’s age sat by the young man they had met earlier, and as Owen and his men took their places on a bench another slightly older girl and a younger boy joined them. Dame Margaret took a seat at one end, Nick on the other end.

At first the family ate in uneasy silence, jumping at the slightest sound, until the young boy burst out, ‘How did you lose your eye, Captain Archer?’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the girl Gwen’s age.

‘Children!’ Margaret hissed, wincing an apology.

Owen smiled. ‘Not at present.’

Ned grinned. ‘He feels it only when dragons are near, for it was in a battle with a dragon that he lost it.’

‘Really?’ the youngest squealed, his eyes wide with delight. ‘How big was the dragon?’

‘About the size of your da,’ said Owen.

‘No. Dragons are big!’ The boy spread his arms wide.

‘Oh?’ Owen scratched his chin. ‘Was it just a man?’

Everyone laughed, a good easing of the tension that had been building throughout the day. When all had eaten their fill, Dame Margaret and the children cleared the table while Owen, Ned, Stephen, Michaelo, and Nick settled by the fire with bowls of ale.

‘Is it true you’re hoping to take Tom to Holcomb in the morning?’ Nick asked.

‘If Dame Sandrine agrees. With Goodwife Marietta’s death I think it wise.’

‘You worry that whoever poisoned Goodwife Marietta will try to do the same to Master Tom.’

‘Perhaps not poison, but get rid of him, yes.’

‘What do you need of me tonight?’

Owen had been thinking how they might hold intruders. ‘Not that I expect trouble, but in case – I noticed a shed out back.’

‘We keep some garden tools in there, nothing more. Do you need it?’

‘Can it be locked?’

‘I do lock it. So the little ones don’t stab themselves.’

It looked large enough for several adults. ‘We might need it.’

‘I’ll fetch you the key. Anything else?’

‘Keep your family up in the solar. Do not try to help if you hear trouble down here.’

Tom overheard snippets of the conversation by the fire. He feared for the Alcocks and his friends and grieved for Goodwife Marietta – he’d not known about her death. Sandrine gave him something to calm him, but still he wept, so she asked Owen and Michaelo to speak to him.

‘I should have died. Better for everyone.’

Brother Michaelo took his hand. ‘You are loved, Tom. Bess will not sleep well until you are home and healing, and all of York wishes you well and prays for your return. Your customers are loyal, keeping Bess and Mary busy.’

Tom tried to shake his head. ‘Dangerous for you.’

Owen pressed a cool cloth to the parts of Tom’s face and neck not bandaged. ‘I was trained as a soldier, remember? What I need from you is any detail that might help me protect you and the Alcocks tonight. Is there anything more that you can tell me?’

‘Grey and Brimsby. My enemies. And each other’s.’

‘Might they work together against you?’

‘Don’t know. Depends. What Grey keeps from Brimsby.’

‘Harry or Carl?’

‘Harry. Carl maybe. He’s young. Angry. Though does not know me.’ Tom mumbled the last few words as he closed his eye.

‘We will leave you to your rest, dear friend.’

Michaelo said a prayer over Tom, then followed Owen back into the hall. ‘Despair does not help healing.’

‘I’m glad you are here to comfort him.’ Michaelo was good with Tom, listening to him, calming him. Owen was too itchy for information.

‘I am grateful to be of use. I have not endured the journey in vain.’ A sniff.

Too restless to sleep and confident that Stephen and Ned, sleeping on pallets by the street and the kitchen doors, would rouse in the case of trouble, Owen wrapped himself in his cloak and went out into the night. A ground fog deepened the nighttime chill and subtly changed the features of the buildings so that it was necessary he focus on where he turned, in what direction. He managed to find the minster, its sanctuary light beckoning, a side door unlocked. Within, candles lit the lady altar and an oil lamp glowed beside a priest kneeling at a prie dieu. Another restless soul? The priest glanced round as Owen approached, rising with the lamp to see who had entered.

‘You must be Captain Archer, come from York for the taverner. I am Dom Hubert.’ His smile was kind.

Owen bobbed his head. ‘I come to pray for my friend, that our journey home will not harm his recovery.’

‘I have prayed for him as well. You are welcome to share the peace here.’ Dom Hubert bowed to Owen and returned to the prie dieu.

Before the statue of the Blessed Mother Owen bowed his head and tried to clear his mind of all but his prayers for Tom. The minster was quiet, the only sound the murmur of the priest’s prayers. Mother of God, I pray you, intercede for my friend in his hour of need. Tom is a good man, God-fearing and loyal. I fear for his safety here and mean to make haste, yet I worry it might weaken him. I pray your Son will watch over him.

A shower of needle pricks across Owen’s blind eye alerted him to someone entering the side door. Dom Hubert’s lamp illuminated a silver-haired man. The newcomer bowed to the priest, murmured something too softly for Owen’s ears, received the priest’s blessing, and moved away into the shadows. Dom Hubert returned to his prayers as the newcomer crossed the nave and paused facing a wall. Borrowing one of the altar candles, Owen approached him, his light revealing musicians carved in stone. Owen smiled. His blind eye’s signal was not a warning, but a recognition.

‘Benedicite, old friend.’

‘Ambrose loved these carvings.’ Martin Wirthir’s voice was soft with tenderness. ‘It is good to see you, Owen.’

‘You still love him.’

‘Yes.’ Martin’s smile was fleeting. ‘But he is safer without me.’ He stepped closer, studying Owen’s face. He smelled of horse, sweat, and the anise seed that he loved to chew. ‘Except for a few gray hairs you’ve not changed at all,’ he said. ‘You made the right choice.’

‘And you?’

‘I am as you see, worn with travel and travail.’ The silver hair and weather-beaten face bespoke a challenging life since last they had met.

‘I can release you of one burden. Your mission succeeded. Lancaster invites you to be his guest. He hopes for more information.’

‘Then why are his men here?’

‘The Frenchman is here to extend the invitation, and escort you if you choose. The other, Bertram Hawkins, serves Thomas Percy. I’m watching him.’

‘Percy’s man. Thank you for the warning. I am glad the English listened and prepared. But that is all I wish to give Lancaster. His men … I think they seek others as well?’ Martin had not lost his skill as a spy.

‘Another pair. John Grey and Friar Jerome, involved in the riots in London.’

‘Ah.’ Martin glanced behind Owen. ‘Dom Hubert is watching. Before he asks us to leave, I want to fulfill my purpose in following you here. I know the three who approached you on the road. Carl, Bolt, and David, young men from the same manor. I’ve learned that Carl is a Brimsby. All three went missing after your friend’s attack.’

‘You followed them?’

‘After you frightened them off.’ Martin smiled. ‘Habit. I want you to return to York uninjured. But I’ve lost track of them. David, the injured one, tried to run from them and they took up the chase, worried he would talk. Which is why I am here interrupting your quiet time. From what I could hear, I suspect they are the ones responsible for the beatings of both Tom Merchet and Harry Brimsby.’

‘Carl beat his father?’

‘Fathers and sons are not always fond.’

‘Where did you last see them?’

‘Near the manor. I presume you are headed there soon?’

‘In the morning, if Tom has a good night.’

‘I will watch and send word to the manor house.’

‘How?’

Martin grinned. ‘Do you doubt me?’

Only the weariness Owen sensed in his old friend gave him pause. ‘What will you do after this? Are you for home?’

‘Lille, yes. See what sort of life I might have there in the time left to me.’

Another sign. ‘I would have liked you to see Jasper again.’

‘I have seen him. From afar. He’s grown into a fine young man.’

‘That he has.’

Martin put his hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Tell him that I count saving him as my finest moment. And now I leave you to your prayers. Get some sleep. You have a long journey ahead, and a weight on your shoulders.’

‘If your path leads you through York, Jasper and Lucie would like to see you once more.’

Martin said nothing for a time. ‘We shall see.’

Owen knocked on the kitchen door to alert Ned that he was not an intruder, but a dagger awaited him when he opened the door.

‘You would injure your captain?’

‘I wasn’t certain I’d heard rightly.’ Ned sheathed his dagger. ‘You’ve been on watch?’

‘Praying. In the minster.’

By now Brother Michaelo had joined them. ‘You could not pray here?’

‘Something drew me out. I am glad I took heed.’ He told Ned and Michaelo of his encounter with Martin.

‘A guardian angel,’ said Michaelo. ‘An unexpected role for a spy.’

‘Or the truth about spies,’ said Ned. ‘I hope to finally meet him.’

‘For now, say nothing except to Stephen. Best Sir Ralph, and Denis and Bertram if they join us, be unaware that he is near.’

Waking before dawn on his pallet in the hall Owen followed a murmur of voices to Tom’s bed. Sandrine and Brother Michaelo were helping Tom into a clean shirt, taking their time to ease it over the bandaged arm and hand. He already wore stockings and leggings, and he was shaved. They were preparing him for the journey.

Owen waited until Tom was resting against the pillows to approach. ‘A good night, Tom?’

‘I dreamed Bess was beside me.’ He was not so breathless this morning, and his grip was firm when he grasped Owen’s hand. ‘Take me home.’

Owen turned to Sandrine, who stood near. ‘Do you judge him well enough to travel to Holcomb Manor?’

‘As long as I am with him until you depart the manor,’ she said. ‘I must prepare. If you would sit with him while I gather what we will need.’

‘My men have arranged a cart. I will ask them to see about a guide to the manor.’

‘No need for that. I know the way.’

After helping an elderly customer out the door to the daughter she had ordered to wait without – the woman preferred to keep her ailments to herself – Lucie took advantage of a quiet moment in the shop to send Gwen on an errand. Jasper had been teaching her how to grind powders with the smallest pestle in the workroom, which was hard, dusty work. She deserved fresh air.

‘I thought her enthusiasm would pale when she discovered why it’s called a “work” shop,’ Jasper said after Gwen scampered off. ‘But she is ever asking to learn more. She is a good student.’

‘And you are a fine teacher,’ said Lucie. ‘But you have twice failed to open the shop on time this week.’ He’d arrived late again, as she was about to sweep the street outside the door. ‘Explain yourself.’ She took a seat on a high stool and waited while Jasper tidied the table and shook powder off his apron.

At last he faced her. ‘When Da’s away I go out early to walk round, hear the gossip. I want to know if there’s anything to worry about.’

He meant to protect them. She’d no idea. ‘How long have you done this?’

A shrug. ‘A few years.’

She had never guessed he felt so insecure – and responsible – with Owen away. But there was a reason she had not noticed a pattern. ‘In the past you always made it back to open the shop.’

A shrug. ‘I hadn’t heard or seen anything that delayed me.’

‘But of late?’

‘There’s a friar, maybe an Austin like Dom Erkenwald, who comes and goes from a lodging in Petergate, looking all about him as if he’s fearful of being noticed. Never with a fellow churchman, and once with another stranger who looked like trouble. The first day I followed them until they disappeared down by the river. Today I went to George Hempe to tell him about it. Mistress Hempe said he was at the York Tavern, but I should wait, he would be back to break his fast. So I waited. I did not want Dame Bess to hear. Did I do right?’

‘To tell Master George, yes. You think he might be the one the duke’s men seek?’

‘Maybe? I’ve never seen him before. And why is he lodging there, not at one of the friaries in the city?’

‘What did George think?’

‘He thought I might have done him a favor. Thanked me and walked with me so I could show him the lodging.’

She was proud of Jasper, but … ‘You are an apprentice apothecary, not one of the bailiff’s men. You’ve neglected your duties to play spy.’

‘Not play!’ he burst out, then looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

‘See that it doesn’t.’ The shop bell jingled. As Lucie walked away she turned back, caught his eye. ‘But well done, all the same.’

Fifteen

Holcomb Manor

The morning dawned fair, and by the time the company set off the sun had warmed the air to the point that Tom asked whether he needed all the blankets and hides Sandrine had tucked round him. She insisted on them with such gentle good cheer that he smiled and accepted it.

The calm weather and easy pace allowed Owen conversation with Brother Michaelo, who was keen to tell him of his time with Tom the previous night, when he could not sleep.

‘He still dreaded returning home. I thought, of course, rattling round in a cart in inclement weather when suffering internal injuries is hardly something he would choose for himself. But as he spoke I understood that it was not the discomfort he dreaded – although he admitted he had no taste for it – but facing Dame Bess. There are things he’s never told her that he now must, before she hears it from others. Secrets he’s kept because he did not want to lose her.’

‘Not his actions of late, but in the past?’

‘Before he met her.’

‘Have you any notion what they are?’

‘No. He says he must tell her first. I argued that we need to know from whom we’re shielding him on the journey, but he said we know, the Greys and the Brimsbys. From the way he said it, the Greys are the true horror for him.’

Owen had always considered Tom a simple man living a good life in his second marriage, a blessing after his first marriage had ended in tragedy with his beloved wife dying in childbed, the baby stillborn. He’d never been clear where Tom had lived with his late wife, but knew that Bess had brought him and the York Tavern back to life. Clearly there were depths Tom had never shared.

Perhaps Holcomb Manor held the key. ‘We might well learn something today.’ Owen fell back to check the cart. Tom smiled in his sleep.

‘It cheered him to see the sun, feel the warmth,’ said Sandrine. ‘Before we arrive, a caution. Many on the manor consider the Brimsbys a cursed family. They’ve only the one son, whose birth crippled Ann Brimsby and tore her womb beyond repair. Had a skilled healer attended …’

‘Crippled?’

‘Damage to her hip. Again, had a skilled healer been in attendance, or had one been called to help reset her bones, she might have been spared the twisted limb. She manages with a stick for short walks, or to move about the house. People say it is like Helena. Harry’s seed is poison to women.’

Did Helena believe this? Did the son Carl? ‘Do you think it possible Harry’s son attacked him?’

‘When you believe you are poison, you become so.’ An answer worthy of Magda Digby. ‘Do you think it so?’ she asked.

‘A possibility.’

They continued in silence, leaving the road in the place Sir Ralph had parted with them the previous morning. It seemed impossible it had been but yesterday they had reunited with Tom. A long day, a long night. The track led through rolling meadows, past several orchards and a fine half-timbered hall Sandrine noted was the steward’s home. Judging by the expanse they covered to arrive at the manor house, an extensive half-timbered building with a stone foundation that suggested undercrofts, Sir Ralph was far wealthier than Owen had known, to consider this a lesser property. A young woman noticed them and hurried into the house.

Sir Ralph stepped out, the young woman following, as Owen, Michaelo, and Stephen dismounted and Ned hopped down from the cart. ‘Tell the housekeeper to prepare the bedchamber off the hall for an injured guest and his nurse,’ Sir Ralph told the maidservant. ‘And call for Sam to see to the horses.’

She hurried off around the side of the house, calling for Sam as she passed the stables. A youth hurried out toward them, wiping his hands on a cloth.

‘My apologies for arriving without notice,’ said Owen.

‘Was there trouble in Beverley?’

‘An unnatural death. I judged it best for Tom and for the Alcocks that we depart. I regret if the trouble follows us here.’

‘It began here. I am glad you’ve come.’

A harried housekeeper fluttered about the bedchamber in which Tom lay beneath the blankets and skins Sandrine had provided. ‘No warning,’ she muttered to herself over and over while fussing with the wall hangings and stirring up dust. Sandrine gently thanked her and asked that she and Tom be left in peace. Owen withdrew as well, Brother Michaelo following.

In the hall the finely carved wooden furniture carried a blanket of dust. But the floor rushes were fresh and the wine of quality.

‘Tom Merchet looks almost as terrible as Harry Brimsby,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I would venture the difference is in the care. Dame Sandrine is a skilled healer.’

‘I would like to talk to the Brimsbys today,’ said Owen.

‘You’ll get little from talking to them. Harry’s wife Ann refuses to say a word. Harry’s not awakened since his beating, nor has his son Carl been seen since then. Disappeared along with two friends – the ones we encountered, I presume – and no one has bothered to search for them. Troublemakers when together. Their absence is appreciated.’

‘Names of Carl’s companions?’

‘Bolt and David. Why do you ask?’

‘In case I come across them.’ He would rather not reveal Martin’s help. ‘Someone sent a tenant to Beverley to accuse Tom. Do you know who it was?’

Sir Ralph grunted. ‘You heard about that. Dugger’s his name. A strange tale that I find difficult to believe.’

‘I would like to talk to him,’ said Owen.

‘Be my guest. He is in the kitchen. I sent for him yesterday, but he was ploughing, so he’s come today. But first, tell me why you left Beverley betimes.’

Issy’s tears woke Bess to how sharply she’d spoken. ‘Forgive me, child. I-I am not myself of late. You misunderstood, and that is my fault, not yours. Let me help you clean this.’

When the mess from the leaking trencher had been wiped up and a fresh serving of stew delivered to the customer, Bess smiled at Issy and hurried off to her bedchamber.

Though she was well aware she had a temper that flared when she was presented with shoddy work, Bess prided herself in always tempering that with fairness. Especially with a new worker like Issy, poor child, she would normally hold her tongue. Not today. Her fear for Tom was not the child’s problem.

A middle-aged man dressed for work in the fields sat in a corner of the kitchen doing his best to stay out of the cook’s way. Dugger’s face rested in a sorrowful expression, his large eyes tilted downward at the corners. ‘Not Carl. Don’t know who it was came to the door. Was dark.’ He focused on Owen’s patch, flinching at his slightest movement.

‘But you took their word,’ said Owen. He kept his voice low, calm, but he did not smile.

‘I’ve seen Master Harry. All bloodied and bruised, swollen up like a ripe …’ The man looked at Brother Michaelo and stopped, though the monk had his head down as he took notes and had shown no sign of discomfort. ‘I could believe he was close to death.’

‘You’d already seen him when this person came to the door?’ asked Owen. ‘That was why you went without knowing who had sent you?’

‘No. Saw him later. But I felt it my duty to go.’

Owen and Michaelo exchanged a look. ‘How much did they pay you for your trouble?’

Dugger glanced at Sir Ralph, then bowed his head as he mumbled, ‘Two groats.’

Sir Ralph’s brows knit together, but he said nothing. Michaelo smiled to his wax tablet.

‘Tell me exactly what the man said when he came to the door.’

‘Not a man. A woman. She said I was to ride to Beverley at first light. Warn them that a man might stumble into the city, or be brought in, name of Tom Merchet. And that he had near murdered the steward of Holcomb Manor.’ Near murdered. No wonder the coroner had not been called. ‘I thought it might be Harry’s wife, sounded like her, and she said that it was Carl, Harry’s son, who bore witness to the attack and asked that I go raise the hue and cry because Carl did not want to leave his father, and here were a pair of groats for my trouble. I went to the steward’s house in the morning. Dame Ann denied that she or any of the servants had come to me, but she was glad of the help. I don’t know who she was who bid me go. But seeing poor Harry I felt I should do as the woman said.’

‘Did you see Carl at his father’s side?’

Dugger frowned. ‘No. No, he wasn’t about.’

‘Did you ask after him?’

‘No.’

Owen glanced at Sir Ralph, who shook his head. ‘I’d heard nothing of this.’

‘Why would this woman, whoever she was, come to you?’ Owen asked.

‘Close to road?’ Dugger shrugged.

‘Do you often open the door at night without a light to hand to see who it is?’

‘People don’t come knocking at night. So this … I thought it might be about one of my children. They sleep up in the loft. One might have gotten out.’

Owen thought it possible, but still wondered about the light. And his wife. Wouldn’t she have asked the woman to identify herself? ‘Why didn’t either you or your goodwife ask who it was?’

‘We both thought it was Dame Ann, like I said. Just thought I knew.’

‘I have heard Dame Ann walks with some difficulty. Would she come so far in the night?’

Dugger shrugged.

‘This woman gave you instructions about who to see, and where to go in Beverley?’

‘No. She just said what to say, and that Carl Brimsby sent her to me. I asked at an inn just inside the gate. They pointed out the bailiff’s home, Sam Cropper.’

‘Did Cropper ask many questions?’ Though the bailiff had claimed it was not his place to ask anything, Owen wondered.

‘He did not believe me. Asked how I knew, who else had seen it, why anyone would attack the steward, why I was the one raising the hue and cry. I knew nothing, except that mistress Brimsby, Dame Ann, said a man came to the door the afternoon of the beating, asking for her husband, and her husband and son took him for a walk. Next she knew her husband was delivered to the door near dead and there was no waking him.’

‘Who brought him home?’

‘She did not know.’

Did not wish to say? ‘Have you seen Carl Brimsby since then?’

‘No.’

Owen motioned to Brother Michaelo that he was finished, and invited Sir Ralph to join him in the garden.

‘I’ve a mind to tip the man out of his house,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘He insults us with his lies.’

‘Or is he repeating others’ lies? We know too little. I’d like to call on the Brimsbys, see him, talk to his wife and servants.’

Sir Ralph inclined his head, though he warned, ‘You’ll learn little.’

‘That seems to be the tale so far. Is there anyone who might talk honestly about Tom Merchet’s time here?’

‘Merchet’s?’ Sir Ralph walked with hands clasped behind him, gazing up at the crowns of the apple trees overhead. ‘Martha, the miller’s wife. My father said she took a liking to the Merchets. She has stood up to Harry many a time. Who will you see first?’

Owen chose Martha Miller. It would be nice to have some facts to hand when talking to the steward’s wife. Sir Ralph gave him directions to the mill, then on to the Brimsby house, and took his leave.

‘Take these to Bess.’ Her mother handed Gwen two small packets. ‘Tell her the larger one is a powder to mix, small doses, so that she can sleep. The smaller is the salve she uses on her hands after scrubbing.’

Gwen repeated the instructions under her breath, as her mother had taught her. ‘Is she having trouble sleeping?’

‘Look at the shadows beneath her eyes. That is from worrying and waking.’

‘Did she ask for the sleep powder?’

Her mother raised a brow. ‘What do you think?’

‘Too much to do!’ Gwen said.

Her mother laughed. ‘You know her well.’

Out in the yard, the air snapped with cold and Gwen shivered in her short cape. Spring refused to come this year. Hurrying head down into the York Tavern she almost collided with a girl.

‘Oh! Forgive me. I wasn’t looking.’ Gwen tilted her head, studying the girl, sapling thin and ghostly pale. ‘I’m Gwen. On an errand for my mother, the apothecary next door. I have something for Aunt – Dame Bess. Are you a guest?’

‘No. I work here. A woman apothecary? Are you going to be one?’

‘I hope to, so for now I assist, until I’m old enough to apprentice. My big brother is my mother’s apprentice right now. Jasper. Are you living in the tavern?’

‘No. I go home after nones. Outside the gates. Near the Riverwoman’s rock. I’m Issy.’

No wonder she was so thin, living in the tumbledown shacks outside the abbey walls. But Bess would fatten her and likely the entire family. ‘Do you know where Dame Bess is?’

Issy gestured toward the kitchen. ‘Does she ever laugh?’

‘Does she … All the time! Hasn’t she laughed since you’ve been here?’ She must truly need the sleep powder. And maybe something to strengthen her blood. Gwen would ask her mother about that.

In the kitchen, Bess and Cook – Aunt Bess never used her cooks’ names – discussed what broths and thicker soups would be best for Tom as he recovered.

‘Dear Gwen. Are these for me?’ She smiled as Gwen explained each. ‘A sleep powder? Oh! Bless her. But I’ve too much to do.’

Gwen bit back a laugh. ‘Mother says it’s for the worrying as well.’

Bess’s eyes grew serious. ‘I’ve been doing that,’ she said, more to herself than Gwen. ‘Perhaps a pinch tonight.’

Crossing back to the apothecary Gwen fell to thinking about Issy and what it must be like to live in a house without a hearth, crowded with other houses on the riverbank, all dampness and cold. And to always be hungry.

‘I live like a princess,’ she said when she joined her mother at the workbench.

‘You’ve met Issy?’

How did she do that? How did she know what Gwen had been thinking? ‘I did.’

‘And what did Bess say?’

‘What we expected. But I said it’s for worrying, too, and she said she might try a pinch tonight.’

Her mother’s smile made her feel several inches taller. ‘Well done, Gwen.’

Sixteen

Lily, and a Corpse

The miller directed Owen and Michaelo to a bend in the stream where they found a woman plunging a hazel wand into the water for a few breaths and then taking it out and bending it, a process she repeated several times as they approached. A pile of hazel wands and a partially completed basket – large enough to hold a child – lay beside her on the bank.

‘Dame Martha?’

‘That would be me,’ she said. Her eyes were hazel, like her materials, one of them seemingly working in its own way. She seemed of an age with Tom and Bess, but there was nary a strand of gray in the dark hair that escaped her white coif.

Owen introduced himself and Michaelo.

She bobbed her head to Brother Michaelo, ‘Father,’ and frowned at Owen. ‘A Welsh soldier, are you?’ She’d caught his way of speaking.

‘Born in Wales, and once a soldier,’ he said. ‘Now a husband and father, and the captain of York.’

‘York? Well now, have a seat and tell me what brings you to Holcomb Mill. Though I think I could guess. Do you always travel with a monk?’

‘I am his secretary,’ said Michaelo, taking a cautious seat on a large stone.

‘My ear tells me you’re from even farther away than Captain Archer.’

‘Normandy,’ said Michaelo. ‘But I have long lived in York, at St Mary’s Abbey, and then with Archbishop Thoresby, as his secretary.’

‘And now the captain’s.’ She nodded.

As Owen settled, grateful to stretch out his legs – so much riding in the past days – he told her of his mission to Beverley, Tom’s extensive injuries.

Her eyes reddened with emotion. ‘Beaten and stabbed. Poor, dear Tom.’ She crossed herself. ‘But why has it fallen to you to help him?’

‘Tom and his wife Bess are family to me, my wife, and my children. I am told that you were friends with him and his first wife.’

‘I was. First wife, you say, so he remarried. Good. That is good. Is it a happy marriage?’

‘Very.’

‘That gladdens my heart. Oh, that poor, dear man. And does he still work with wood?’

‘Yes and no. He owns the York Tavern and brews the finest ale. His woodwork is tables, stools, benches now.’

‘Ah, well that was much of his work here, and finishings in the master’s house. Fine ale, you say. Really?’ She glanced away from him with a frown, picked up the basket, wove the now supple and bent willow wand into place. ‘I heard about his trouble here, though not how badly he had been injured. This place is a bane for him, and none of it his fault, that’s what I say. What do you want to know?’

‘Sir Ralph cannot recall what precisely happened after Tom’s wife’s death. Why he left.’

She glanced down, frowning a little. ‘Yes. Sir Ralph would have been away, fostering in a noble house. De Warrene? I cannot recall.’ She took up two wands, compared them, set one aside, and dipped the other in the water. ‘She was such a pretty little thing, Tom’s Lily. Quiet. They were so in love. I thought their baby would be the luckiest child. But God chose otherwise.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, an awkward gesture while bending a dripping hazel wand. ‘When she died in childbirth, he walked among us like a ghost.’ A branch floated by and she idly drew it out of the water. ‘No good for the mill downstream.’

‘I understand some trouble sent him away.’

‘The Brimsbys, they were the trouble, but the master understood too late. First it was the wood for the coffin. Harry’s father accused Tom of stealing it. Cutting a tree he wasn’t entitled to. But that wasn’t true. The master had given him leave to save fallen wood and the bits remaining from carpentry that might be of use to him, and he fashioned the coffin from such. The wood had nothing to do with it. Brimsby had wanted Lily for Harry.’

‘And Harry?’

‘He was always sniffing after his sister. Until the illness that left her stumbling about, never clear where the parts of her were. People whispered she was cursed for lying with her brother.’ Martha tsked. ‘But I’d seen her delirious with the fever, not a curse. And suddenly Harry wanted naught to do with her. Though someone was beating her, blackened eyes, arm in a sling. It wasn’t all from her stumbling. By then Lily had wed sweet Tom. He was no holier than the next man. He’d shown up to the manor with a past, and a rough one. But he was gentle with her, and a hard worker, never drunk, never fighting. The three who took him away after Lily’s death, they were from that past, and I could see him changing once they appeared.’

Here was something he could use. ‘Who were they? Do you remember names?’

‘One was Julian, called Jules. The others were kin, brothers. Will and John? Forgettable names, but the one was far from forgettable. Evil to the bone, that one. A beast of a man with a sly eye. Not like mine.’ She touched her own wandering eye. ‘A squint that twisted his face. The other, Will, I think, had as fierce a temper, but he was smaller, losing as many fights as he won. I was glad when they left, though sorry they took Tom with them.’

‘Were they called Willoby and Jacoby?’

Her eyes widened. ‘That was it. You’ve heard of them?’

‘Yesterday, in Beverley. What do you know of this rough past of Tom’s?’

‘He did not speak of it, but Lily told me he had run from trouble, made a new life. Then, in his grief, made all the worse by the steward’s unjust accusation, he fell down again.’

Poor Tom. ‘You would not guess it now,’ Owen said. ‘At least not before what happened here some days ago.’

‘I am sorry it’s caught up with him again.’ About to dip a fresh wand in the water, she paused, her attention on the opposite bank. ‘Do you see someone in the trees?’

Owen followed her gaze. Martin. He raised his hand. ‘One of my men. I must go to him. But – Tom’s in the manor house, if you would care to see him. Afterward we might talk more?’

‘I would like that. In a few hours.’ She nodded toward Martin. ‘Don’t keep him.’

‘You will not mention seeing him—’

‘I will say nothing.’

While Brother Michaelo and Martin Wirthir enjoyed a moment of reunion, Owen crouched down to study the grim evidence of a young man’s final moments. He had crashed through a hazel thicket, heading for the creek or a hiding place when he was struck on the back of the head with a rock or something equally heavy and he’d fallen, clawed the ground, trying to rise up. His attacker had trampled his right hand, perhaps just before lifting him to slit his throat. A few similarities to Tom’s beating, but this time it was not a warning, but a silencing.

‘May God grant him rest,’ said Michaelo. He had found a fallen log on which to sit and taken out his wax tablet.

Owen described what he had noticed.

‘This is the one who ran,’ said Martin, crouching beside Owen, touching the corpse with his truncated forearm. ‘David.’

‘Any sign of the others?’

‘Not yet. I will keep searching.’

As Owen passed the manor house on his way to Brimsby’s home he called to a servant out in the kitchen garden and told her to alert Sir Ralph of the body, describing where he had discovered it.

‘I could attend the men when they deliver the young man to his family,’ said Michaelo.

‘Such a kindness might loosen tongues. Thank you,’ said Owen. ‘But first we talk to the Brimsbys.’

The steward’s house was a stout building, well made, a fine house humbled only by Sir Ralph’s finer manor house. Within, a servant tiptoed as she showed them to the bedchamber where Ann Brimsby sat with her bedridden husband. Even from the doorway it was clear that Harry’s injuries equaled Tom’s, or perhaps exceeded them. The man’s color was ashen and Dame Ann said he had not spoken since the beating, though he woke now and then and made noise to get attention. His bandages were dingy and poorly wrapped, which might explain his slow recovery. Despite the one leg stretched before her at an angle, Dame Ann sat erect. Her gown was of expensive cloth, her silvered hair held away from her face in a silver crispinette, unusual in a steward’s wife on an ordinary day. Much like the furnishings in the house. Harry Brimsby was a well-paid steward. Or he had another source of wealth.

Dame Ann glanced at them with hollow eyes. ‘I’ve naught to say to you. It’s your friend did this.’

‘Where did this happen?’ Owen asked. ‘Did your husband fall in the doorway?’

‘In the trees near, they say.’

‘He chased after Tom Merchet?’

She clutched her hands so tightly her knuckles were white. ‘You ask too many questions.’

‘Who carried him home?’

‘My son, to be sure, though I could see nothing but my poor Harry, near death. Tom Merchet must pay for this.’

‘Who witnessed Tom Merchet doing this?’

‘My son Carl.’

‘He was unable to defend his father?’

‘Get out of my house.’

‘As I am here at the invitation of Sir Ralph you would be wise to answer my questions.’ Owen kept his voice soft. ‘He wishes to find out who did this and ensure that your family and the rest of his tenants are safe.’

She sniffed. ‘He knows who did this.’

‘This is the work of more than one man, Dame Ann. I need to talk to your son, as he seems the only witness to the attack.’

‘I know nothing of his whereabouts. Might be dead in a ditch.’

‘Have you sent out searchers?’

‘Who would I send?’ She glared at him. ‘The tenants see to their own.’

An unpopular steward. ‘When did your son disappear?’

‘I did not see him after my husband was brought to the house.’

‘He brought him, told you who had done it, and left?’

‘That is all I know.’

‘A woman paid Dugger to raise the hue and cry in Beverley. Was it you who went to him when you could not find your son?’

She gazed down at her hands, as if considering her answer. ‘Yes. Of course it was me.’

He did not believe her. ‘Did someone accompany you?’

She rose, with such difficulty it was painful to watch her twist and hold the stick in one hand, clutch the back of the chair with the other. ‘You will leave my house. Now.’

Owen nodded to her, wished her husband a full recovery, and left.

In the kitchen the servants were no more help, clearly fearful of their mistress.

‘She cannot think we’d believe she could go to Dugger in the dark, already weak with worry for her husband,’ said Michaelo as they walked away from the house.

‘I think the only true thing she said was that the tenants would not help her.’ Owen glanced back at the house. ‘Sir Ralph is either most generous to his steward or the man is helping himself to proceeds. Or Carl is part of John Grey’s group of thieves.’

‘Sir Ralph should be warned.’

‘I will do so while you visit David’s family.’

The cook had interrupted Owen’s report to Sir Ralph to announce that dinner was ready to serve in the hall. Ned and Stephen joined them while Owen completed his account and were still at the table when Brother Michaelo returned from speaking with David’s parents. His long face was drawn, his expression grim.

‘It was good of you to go to David’s family,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘A difficult task.’

Brother Michaelo bowed his head. ‘I prayed over him while his mother and sister washed his body,’ he said. ‘They wept all the while and cursed Carl Brimsby for leading a good lad astray.’

‘Did they say any more that I should know?’ asked Sir Ralph. ‘Do not spare me.’

Michaelo glanced at Owen, who motioned for him to go on. ‘They say Harry Brimsby has bled them and Carl told David that his father keeps much of the earnings of the manor, reporting to you only so much as would keep him his station.’

‘I see.’ Sir Ralph rose from the table, his jaw set. ‘I must think what to do.’ He put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘You said Martha, the miller’s wife, might come to see Tom?’

Owen nodded.

‘If you would tell her that I would like to talk to her second eldest, the one who keeps the accounts for the mill? As soon as possible.’

‘I will.’

When their host had departed Ned said, ‘Will, John’s brother, we’ve not talked about him. Is he part of all this? Why had we not heard of him until the tavern in Beverley?’

‘He left his brother’s shadow and set out on his own life?’ said Michaelo.

‘But we should keep him in mind,’ said Stephen.

‘I agree, but we know little about him,’ said Owen. ‘We should watch for anyone following us.’

Ned leaned close to ask quietly, ‘Should Martin be told of him?’

That would have been wise. But Owen had no idea how to do so. ‘We need to trust he’s doing as we are, watching everyone.’

After visiting with Tom, a tearful reunion, Martha Miller sat with Owen and Michaelo in a secluded spot in the orchard, a half circle of benches beneath an old, gnarled apple tree with a hint of buds along its branches.

‘Tom was a brave fool to come here. Why he expected Harry to give him the courtesy of hearing his plea is a mystery, and I said so.’ Owen could see by his frown that Michaelo, too, was surprised that Tom had been so open with Martha, and she with him. ‘But what happened then? Why are their stories so different?’

‘Harry has said nothing at all, if his wife is to be believed,’ said Owen. ‘And we’ve only her word for what Carl said.’

‘Poor woman, marrying into that family,’ Martha sighed. ‘You say she is lying?’

‘I think she is repeating what she’s been told to say. But by whom, that is the question. I have thought about our earlier conversation. When I mentioned fine ale, I believe that meant something to you.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘It’s but a whisp of memory, something I overheard the one, Jacoby, saying, that his brother stole a recipe for such an ale as would make him rich. Only that. Neither could read, so who knows what it said. They might have brought it to Tom to read for them. Lily had taught him to read a little. She was so proud of him.’ A sad smile. ‘He liked to try his hand at brewing. He had some skill. They might have wanted him to help.’

Owen thought of the taverner’s story, that Will knew someone who would help him. ‘Why did Helena Brimsby leave the manor?’

‘There were two stories. Some say she lies in the parish churchyard. Others believe that story was to save the family’s reputation, that she was with child and ran away.’

‘Whose child?’

‘Harry had accused Tom of lying with her before he married, then again when he was widowed, but few believed it, knowing how Harry had sniffed after his sister for years. A while after she disappeared word spread that she was working in a York brothel.’ She puffed her lips and gave a little shrug. ‘I do not know the truth of it.’

Owen shifted to rise. ‘Thank you, Dame Martha. You have been a great help.’

‘I thought I saw him again, Jacoby, the big evil one. It was the very day that Tom came to Harry. Just a glimpse of him in the orchard. I had come with my son to deliver flour and was looking out from the kitchen. A glimpse is all. A woman with him, having difficulty keeping up. She put me in mind of Helena Brimsby.’

Brother Michaelo made a thoughtful sound. Owen nodded to him. A connection at last.

‘Have you seen a friar on the manor?’ Owen asked. ‘Jerome, by name. Not Franciscan, but Austin, with the dark robes.’

‘No one like that, no.’ She rose. ‘I will pray for Tom. He is blessed in his friends.’

‘Sir Ralph wishes to speak to your second eldest son about the manor accounts.’

‘He does?’ Martha straightened with pride. ‘My son will give him an honest account. I’ll see that he comes straight here.’

In late afternoon, Owen sat at Tom’s bedside, glad to see his excitement as he wondered what he would find at home, whether Mary had mastered the brewing of ale, whether the regulars had supported Bess in his absence.

‘Not quite as good as yours, but better than anyone else’s in York,’ said Owen. ‘And the regulars are faithful.’ The topic of Mary’s brewing reminded Owen of his recent conversation. ‘Martha Miller spoke of old friends who came to you in your mourning. One of them said his brother had a recipe for ale that would make him rich. He should taste yours, eh?’

That brought on a fit of coughing. ‘She’s mistaken.’ Tom would not meet Owen’s eye. ‘I should rest for the journey.’

Owen found Sandrine sitting outside the room softly humming as she worked a spindle.

She set it aside when she saw him and rose, brushing off her immaculate gown. ‘Come again later. Martha’s visit was good for him, but tiring.’

‘Do the Greys have any children?’ he asked.

‘I did not think so. Yet I have seen a solicitous young man walking with her and noticed a slight resemblance.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘Only that he has brown hair and delicate hands. His clothing is not as fine as hers, and sometimes stained. With paint, I think. I have never seen him with John Grey.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Michaelo, rushing up to them, ‘but Bertram and Denis have just arrived from Beverley and they’ve discovered something that may be of use to you, Captain.’

‘Go on,’ said Sandrine. ‘But do come sit with him later.’

‘We have searched the Grey house,’ said Denis. ‘Recalling the rumor that you found a cache of stolen goods in the wall at her lodging in York, we looked for signs of that and found a cache of valuable items. More important to us, Bertram recognized several pieces from the Savoy Palace. A goblet of silver, gold, and precious gems. An enameled silver bowl with a delicately fashioned silver dragon within. A gold coronet with diamonds and rubies.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Brother Michaelo.

‘We now know why Grey joined in the attack on the palace,’ said Bertram. ‘Theft. But it is all the more puzzling that the friar fled with him. Surely he would have been safer in other company.’

Owen considered that. ‘Perhaps he has been offered a portion in exchange for something Grey wants.’

‘Information?’ Denis suggested.

‘The important thing is that we’ve secured what we need to prove Grey’s guilt, but did not find him in Beverley,’ said Bertram. ‘And it seems likely he will follow you to York. When do you depart?’

‘In the early morning.’

‘We will join you.’

Denis added. ‘If we are welcome.’

‘Provide protection for Tom and you are welcome,’ said Owen.

It was late when Owen and Michaelo left Tom’s bedside. His friend had slept most of the time, but when he woke his thoughts were of Martha Miller’s friendship and his regret that he had fled the manor without saying goodbye.

‘Now that is mended,’ Brother Michaelo had said.

Owen and his men were settled on pallets in the hall, near the fire. Stephen already snored.

‘Do you believe a family might be cursed?’ Owen asked Michaelo.

‘Evil is cunning, seeking out vulnerable souls, luring them with promises of all they desire. Once resident in a home I can believe evil spreads, like a canker.’ Michaelo shifted on his pallet to face Owen. ‘We speak of the Brimsbys?’

‘Yes. And I would include Helena. I do not see her as an innocent caught up in this.’

‘No. It’s as if she meant to taunt Tom into running. I felt a weight in that house. If Sir Ralph hires another steward he should have it cleansed with holy water and prayers before the new family arrives.’

Seventeen

A Friar, a Solitary Figure

A fine, chill mist at dawn gave Owen pause about setting out, but Sandrine and Michaelo both assured him it was the sort of morning mist that presaged a sunny day.

‘And I choose to travel today,’ Tom said. ‘I am ready to go home to Bess.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, smiling in anticipation.

That settled it. An hour later, Tom was tucked in the cart, Michaelo beside him. Wrapped in layers of skins and cushioned by more, a generous contribution from Dame Sandrine, Tom was sweating. Better than freezing, but Brother Michaelo dabbed the sweat from his face with a worried frown. ‘Fever or a healthy sweat?’ He looked to Sandrine, who sat across from him.

She touched Tom’s forehead. ‘No fever. Are you warm enough, Brother Michaelo?’

‘At present. You’ve been most kind.’ Michaelo sat on a folded hide and had one draped over his lap.

‘You have been generous with your skill and your time,’ said Owen. ‘I will see that the coverings are returned.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Dame Magda will find a way to return them. And if not, it means she’s found someone who needs them more than I do.’

Her quiet assurance impressed Owen. Yet he worried. ‘Are you safe here? And back in Beverley?’ She meant to remain at the manor for the lying in of Martha Miller’s daughter.

‘As the people of York hold Dame Magda in awe and a little fear, so do the people of Beverley hold me. And all but the Brimsbys here. I am as safe as one can be.’

He understood. ‘Thank you again for all you have done. Tom has improved a hundredfold in your care.’

‘It is what I do.’

She remained in the cart while Owen and the rest of the company took the reins of their mounts from the stable grooms. Owen examined his own, checking the fittings, praising the grooms for their good care. Ned tied his to the wagon and climbed up onto the seat, moving aside several baskets – Sir Ralph’s cook had prepared an abundance of food for the journey. Owen hoped Tom realized how many people wished him a speedy healing. At present, he was clearly loath to part company with Sandrine.

‘Do not worry,’ she told Tom. ‘Brother Michaelo and the captain have my instructions and good provisions for your comfort. And when you reach York, you will be under Dame Magda’s care, the very best.’

‘Bless you, Dame Sandrine,’ Tom’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘I will pray for you every day.’

‘You are kind. We can all use the prayers of good men.’ As Owen helped her out of the cart, she glanced over toward Bertram and Denis, then whispered, ‘They have asked about a Friar Jerome. He was in Beverley briefly, shortly after Tom arrived. But I know no more than that he is gone now. As are the Greys. If they were about, no one was likely to tell the duke’s men. The Beverley community protects themselves against strangers. Being a sanctuary city is not a blessing to them. Have a care on the road. Protect your friend.’

‘Why did you wait until now to tell me about the friar?’

‘I did not wish to distract you. Had it become important, I would have told you.’

‘You remind me of Magda.’

Sandrine hugged him. ‘That is the greatest compliment. Go with the blessings of the Old Ones, Owen Archer.’

A shiver ran down his spine at the words. Magda had never invoked such beings. But he bowed to the healer and said nothing.

Hugh and Emma rushed into the kitchen shouting about the cold and elbowing each other to get closest to the fire.

‘Behave, children.’ Gwen sighed as she led them to the nearby table where a hot pottage and fresh bread awaited. ‘It is cold, but you did not see me run in after my morning business in the back of the garden because I wore my warm cape.’

Smiling at her suddenly mature daughter Lucie hurried to open the door the younger pair had slammed in George Hempe’s face.

‘Alas, a common response to the bailiff’s knock.’ Hempe was laughing. But he quickly sobered as he stepped inside.

‘I hope it isn’t trouble that brings you here first thing,’ she said.

‘Yes and no.’

‘Come, we can go into the hall.’

‘Is Jasper in? He didn’t answer my knock at the workroom door. I’d like to talk to both of you.’

‘We’ll see.’ She fetched a key and her cloak and led him across to the workroom behind the apothecary, where a light shone behind the shuttered window.

‘That wasn’t lit before,’ Hempe said as he knocked.

Jasper opened the door. ‘Morning Ma, Master George. Was it you who knocked before? Sorry. I had trouble falling asleep last night and then woke late.’ He stood aside to let them enter.

Lucie pecked him on the cheek. ‘Worrying again?’

He shrugged. ‘Has something happened?’

Hempe nodded. ‘A friar who calls himself John has been seen coming and going from the lodging on Petergate you pointed out, Jasper, and I very much think he is the one the duke’s men are after.’ Jasper started to say something but Hempe continued, ‘That means you must not engage with him or follow him. A man wanted by the duke is a desperate man, and therefore dangerous. No more early morning spying, Jasper. Will you promise me that?’

‘I was right. I knew it!’

Was he listening? ‘Jasper,’ Lucie said sharply.

He straightened at Lucie’s tone. ‘I understand, and I promise not to continue spying on him. It’s now in your hands, Master George.’

Hempe nodded. ‘You be sure of that.’

Though sufficiently cold to keep the road frozen, the day was dry. For Tom’s sake Owen was determined to take advantage of the favorable conditions and cover as much distance as possible before stopping for the night.

Sir Ralph rode beside Owen on the first lap, reporting that he was moving the Brimsbys to a small tenant house and putting the second eldest son of the miller in Harry’s place as steward for the moment. Owen mentioned Brother Michaelo’s suggestion of cleansing the house with holy water and prayers.

‘God in heaven. Why would I need that? I know you suspect that Carl and his friends beat Harry, but what if they didn’t? What if it was Grey’s men?’

‘And if Carl is one of Grey’s men?’ Owen asked.

Sir Ralph grunted. ‘I admit it seems that way. My neglect of the manor …’

The manor was no longer Owen’s concern. ‘I hope to ride sufficiently far today that we might reach York tomorrow.’

‘One of my tenants lives a day’s ride hence and would be welcoming to the party,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘A good place for Tom to rest for the night.’ He was quiet for a while. ‘I sense you keep some details from me.’

‘You have more than enough on your mind, Sir Ralph.’

Mid-morning and Issy had not arrived, ruining Bess’s plan to go to market for some of Tom’s favorite foods, loath to leave Mary saddled with both consulting with Cook about the midday meal and seeing to customers.

‘Send Tupper to see what’s kept her,’ said Mary.

Why had Bess not thought of that? She was all a muddle without Tom.

In early afternoon the travelers stopped in a grove of trees at the edge of well-tended fields. Tom drank a little wine and ate a bit of gruel heated over the fire, Owen caring for him so that Brother Michaelo might stretch his legs while eating. All anxiously watched the road and the fields around them while they rested and watered the horses.

Back on the road Owen motioned for Ned to ride beside him, giving Stephen a spell driving the cart. He needed the young man’s sharp eyesight.

‘I have sensed a watcher on my blind side for a while now.’

Ned moved to Owen’s left. ‘I’ve seen nothing, but they could be in the trees. You sensed them even while we paused?’

Owen nodded. ‘It might be Martin, but I would like to be sure.’ He felt no shower of needle pricks on his scarred eye, the usual signal for danger. ‘He would not wish Bertram and Denis to see him. The alternative is some of Grey’s men after the items those two carry. Worth a lot and incriminating.’ And if that were so his eye was failing to warn him.

‘Or Carl and Bolt, intending to finish Tom.’ Ned crossed himself. ‘I should not have said that.’

‘It’s on all our minds.’

They rode together for a while, Ned on high alert. But all was quiet. Which did nothing to alleviate Owen’s unease.

Tupper returned with Issy in the midst of the midday bustle when there was no time for explanations. Bess put them to work, but watched them, noting Tupper’s protective glances toward the girl and Issy’s anxious expression, the wariness with which she approached tables. When the work eased, Bess invited the girl into her bedchamber for privacy.

‘What is it? What’s frightened you?’

Her account tumbled out in a flood of tears and arm-waving, a tale that made no sense at first, but suddenly did.

Bess dabbed at the girl’s tears with a linen cloth, murmuring reassurances until she calmed. ‘We must tell Dame Lucie about this, and her son Jasper.’

Issy sniffed. ‘They will know what to do?’

Bess understood that the warning was for Jasper. ‘Come.’ She bustled the girl off to Lucie’s workshop, knocking, then entering.

Lucie looked from one to the other. ‘Bess. Issy. Is something wrong with the salve I made?’

‘No. Nothing so easily resolved,’ said Bess. Issy stayed in her shadow. ‘Is Jasper able to join us? This is for him even more than for you.’

Lucie fetched him, then stayed in the doorway to the shop in case of a customer.

Bess stepped behind the girl and nudged her forward. ‘Before they are called away, tell them what happened yesterday, Issy.’

‘A friar. But not one of the friars who come to our settlement. A stranger. I was going home. He pulled me into an alley before I reached Bootham Bar and said to warn my brother not to follow him or he might end up like Matt.’

‘The young man murdered in Helena Brimsby’s lodging,’ said Bess, despite their worried expressions making clear they’d not forgotten.

It was Issy who squeaked, ‘Murdered?’

‘He meant me,’ said Jasper. ‘I know who he is. I will tell Bailiff Hempe.’

Issy looked confused. ‘Why?’

‘You left from here yesterday,’ said Lucie. ‘So he thought you were one of my daughters. Monster. Pretending to be a man of God.’

‘It’s my fault,’ said Jasper. ‘I will escort you home each day until he is caught, Issy.’

Bess did not need that. ‘Tupper has already agreed to escort her coming and going until then. But I wanted you to know, so that you both might be careful, and all in your family.’

Lucie thanked them both as she hastened into the shop to attend a customer.

Jasper shook his head. ‘I’m such a fool. I thought I was helping Da, but I put my sisters and you in danger.’

‘And you,’ Issy said. ‘But he’s the evil one, not you.’ She blushed and dropped her head.

Foreseeing trouble if Issy started pining for the handsome apprentice, Bess stepped in front of her and gave Jasper a brisk hug. ‘She is right. Now you watch yourself.’

‘I’ve promised Bailiff Hempe I will leave the friar to him. I’ll go tell him what happened to Issy as soon as the shop is quiet.’

‘And I will have Old Bede fetch Alfred to watch.’ Bess nodded to him and herded Issy out the door.

As the daylight faded and evening shadows lengthened Owen noticed a solitary figure on a rise up ahead to his right. Partially hidden by a pair of stunted trees they appeared to be watching the road. Owen told Ned.

‘Pull off to the trees opposite so we can better protect Tom?’ Ned asked.

‘I sense no malice.’ No needle pricks. ‘But be ready. Tell the others to do nothing unless they make a move toward us.’

As Ned fell back to inform the others, Sir Ralph joined Owen.

‘You are worried?’

‘Cautious.’

As they passed the watcher, Owen let his hood drop farther over his face and turned to study the figure, but now the trees shadowed them too much to make out features. And still the figure made no threatening movement, just watched.

‘What if his fellows are waiting to attack farther on?’ Sir Ralph asked.

‘We’ll be ready.’ Owen glanced back. Too far to be certain in the dying light, but the figure appeared to raise an arm, as if in greeting. A foreshortened right arm. Martin Wirthir. But what was the message? Simply that he was there?

‘With luck we will turn off before his fellows see us,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘We are close to where we will rest for the night.’

As they rode on, neither Sir Ralph nor any of the others mentioned seeing what Owen thought he’d seen.

Old Bede shook his head. ‘Poor mite. The friar sounds a slippery lot. I will fetch Alfred here as soon as I’ve finished my meal. He’s a good lad. He’ll do all he can to make sure the man stays away from Issy.’

And Bess had now done all she could. For her part, Issy put aside her fear and set to work, smiling at customers, breezing into the kitchen and back with bowls of steaming stew. A good worker. And Bess felt good to be helping her family, a spot of contentment in the sea of worries ready to toss her about in quiet moments.

A hearty broth brought a flush of color to Tom’s face. Their hosts for the night had made a priority of his comfort, and only when he was settled by the fire circle, covered in a mound of skins and provided with ale and the broth did they see to the others. Owen thanked them for all they were doing for Tom.

‘Good hearts,’ said Brother Michaelo, as Owen joined him where he sat with Sir Ralph, enjoying a bowl of ale. The others were seeing to the horses and working with the couple’s son to fashion a cover for the cart – there was a scent of rain on the evening wind.

‘They are good people,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I knew they would do their best for him. And we will be well fed, you will see.’

Including the food they carried, the company and their hosts ate well indeed.

Eighteen

Plans and Obstacles

In the morning, Alfred and Hempe appeared at the tavern door while Bess was sweeping the threshold. They had taken their time. ‘You’re here about the friar and his threat,’ she said.

Hempe stepped aside as two men entered the tavern. ‘Might we talk elsewhere?’

She led them to her table between the tavern room and the kitchen. ‘I have yet to break my fast, and I would guess you’d not refuse some fresh bread, a bit of ale?’

‘That would be much appreciated.’

Alfred nodded. ‘It’s a braw day out there. Rain coming in, an icy one.’

Dear Lord, protect my Tom. ‘If they are on the road, I pray Tom rides in a covered wagon piled with skins.’

‘The captain will see to it,’ said Alfred. ‘Don’t you worry.’

But she would.

Mary delivered a pitcher of ale and three bowls. ‘I’ll be back with the bread in a moment.’

‘I am blessed with a daughter who knows what I’m thinking.’ Bess laughed, but Hempe’s smile was merely polite. Alfred seemed more at ease. ‘Sit. Tell me your thoughts about the friar.’

Alfred nodded. ‘Yesterday I watched the people coming and going at Bootham Bar. No sign of the friar. I will escort Issy here and back if you tell me when you want her here.’

Issy certainly inspired chivalric behavior. ‘Tupper is doing that.’

‘Has he already gone?’

Bess shook her head.

‘Then I’ll go with him, but stay back, out of sight when Issy’s with him, see whether the friar shows himself.’

Hempe nodded. ‘He’s not been seen at the lodging on Petergate since I set men to watch it. This might trick him into showing himself.’

‘I suppose that will serve,’ said Bess. Until Owen is home, she added silently.

‘This is serious,’ said Hempe. ‘We do not know his purpose, or whether he was the one who killed Matt.’

‘I don’t need you to warn me. I know he could be dangerous.’ Remembering how she’d felt after snapping at Issy, she added, ‘I appreciate your care, this, the guards … Someone is watching Lucie and the children?’

‘Two guards, staying hidden,’ said Hempe.

While they were here … ‘I dreamed last night of the diggers. Remember? People waking to holes in their gardens? Did you ever discover more?’ In the dream, Tom brushed it off as if nothing were happening. This morning it occurred to her that he had been uncharacteristically quiet about it.

‘No,’ said Hempe.

‘I recall hearing a rumor, someone saw the Baker brothers carrying dirty shovels, scurrying down the street in the early morning,’ said Alfred. ‘But they’re always high on the list of suspects when trouble comes.’

‘Why did you not report that?’ Hempe asked Alfred.

‘We could spend our days following the two of them and finding nothing.’

‘Did the rumors say what they sought?’ Bess asked.

‘Treasure.’ Alfred grinned.

Hempe laughed.

The dream still bothered Bess.

‘Do you think we will reach home by nightfall?’ Tom asked as Owen helped him break his fast.

‘Had we better weather, but a storm came up in the night and the road will be muddy. I hope to make it to a home that will be welcoming and comfortable, and only a few hours from home.’

Tom sighed. ‘Now we are so near I am eager to see my Bess.’

‘Tomorrow, my friend.’

When Tom had eaten all he would, Owen went out to the stable to see the covered cart. Oiled sailcloth. He expressed his amazement.

Sir Ralph was pleased. ‘Their son thought to become a sailmaker when he was young, so I gave them this length of cloth on which he might learn the difficulty of working with such material. He is now a farmer, like his father, quite content, with a wife he loves and three healthy children. But he hasn’t lost the knack. Oiled it to cover the thatch atop the hayricks in stormy weather.’

‘You are fond of your tenants.’

‘I feel privileged to have some fine ones. They make up for the lazy and deceptive ones.’

They were a quiet company as they rode, cold, wet, weary, eager to make it as far as possible so that they might find rest at home on the Sabbath. No one, not even Brother Michaelo, suggested they not travel the following day, not just because of their yearning to reach home, but all were aware that with every hour the risk of trouble increased.

‘You look grim, Captain,’ Stephen said as he took his turn at the front beside Owen. ‘Worrying about who might be out there? I saw Martin Wirthir on the rise yesterday. Was that a warning?’

So someone else had seen him. ‘I wish I knew. And you’re right, that worries me.’

‘Do you want me to ride on the rise beside the road so that I might watch for people approaching?’

The land rose to either side. ‘How would you choose which side? No.’ Owen preempted Stephen’s guess. ‘Better we ride together, close enough to call out a warning or an order.’

‘Do you trust the Frenchman around Martin?’

‘I don’t know. He’ll bear watching. And Bertram.’

‘That one’s not at all to my liking.’

Owen glanced around, difficult with his hood up, and was glad to see the duke’s men were well behind, could not possibly hear. ‘Something you’ve noticed him do? Or say?’

‘I don’t like how he goes quiet if one of us approaches when he’s talking to Denis. In truth, I don’t trust anyone but you, Ned, Brother Michaelo, and Tom.’

‘Not Sir Ralph?’

‘Why is he so keen to help?’

‘Because Harry Brimsby was the steward of his manor.’

‘A manor he neglected.’

True. ‘I’ve not told him about my meeting with Martin.’

‘And why is that?’

Why indeed? ‘He doesn’t need to know of it. Not yet.’

‘I doubt you’ve slept much at all on this journey,’ said Stephen. ‘You might take Brother Michaelo’s place in the cart. He’s the fortunate one today, riding beneath that cover, staying close to Tom to keep him warm, which warms him.’

Owen shook his head. He could not relax if he could not see the road.

Satisfied that having an escort had calmed Issy, and that Alfred and Tupper had noticed no one following her, Bess gave Mary instructions and departed on a mission to Queen Bea.

The handsome Edwin greeted her at the door. ‘My mistress is still abed, Dame Bess.’

Behind him, a tall, muscular figure in … clerical robes? Like those at St Leonard’s Hospital where her uncle had lived as a corrodian. Yes. She believed it was an Austin friar hurrying down the steps and escaping through a rear door. She might worry it was Jerome if his gait were not familiar. Curious.

‘What is a more appropriate time to call?’

‘My dear Bess. How might I be of help?’ Queen Bea materialized behind Edwin, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. ‘Edwin, bring us some honey water. Or would you prefer ale or wine?’

‘I pray I did not wake you.’

‘No. I was awake.’ A throaty chuckle. ‘Come.’ She led Bess to the parlor in which they had met before, taking her seat, fussing for a moment with her robe to cover the silk shift beneath. She wore a deep blue robe, the shift beneath a paler blue, and her dark, thick hair was caught up in a silver crispinette, simple, but elegant. ‘Now tell me what troubles you – I can see the worry in your eyes.’

Bess swallowed her curiosity about the friar and told her of the diggers.

Bea shook her head. ‘This is why you’ve come to me?’

At the risk of making a fool of herself, Bess continued, ‘I cannot help but wonder whether it is tied to the attack on my Tom, and I hoped you might recall his long-ago partner, Jules.’

Bea smiled. ‘I do.’

‘I wondered whether anyone connected to him disappeared about the time he left York.’ Bess sat back with her cup of honey water, relieved to have spoken before self-doubt stopped her.

‘You are thinking the diggers searched for a burial?’ Bess nodded. ‘That is a troubling connection. Let me think.’

As Bess sipped the honey water, she smiled despite herself as she realized who she’d seen fleeing the house.

‘You recognized my departing visitor?’ Bea asked.

She paid close attention. ‘Dom Erkenwald of St Leonard’s Hospital, I believe,’ said Bess.

‘Yes. An old friend. Who had news that will be of interest to Captain Archer.’ Again, she purred Owen’s name.

‘You are lovers?’

‘Sometimes.’ A sleepy smile. ‘He denies himself until he cannot bear it. I can be patient, because the return promises at least a week of utter delight.’

Bess felt her face – no, her entire body – flush with warmth. Most fortunate Bea. She shook herself. Goodness, what thoughts.

‘I see you have a healthy appetite, Bess. We must pray that Tom is soon able to satisfy you once more.’ A smile, but fleeting. ‘I have thought of whose bones those might be.’

Bess sat up.

‘A man who was Jules’s competitor for Helena’s favors. When words no longer sufficed and a valuable mazer was used as a weapon I forbade them on the premises. That was the last time I saw him. Can’t recall his name. I showed her to the door shortly afterward. Some said Jules took her in. They left the city about the same time.’

Jules and Helena. Had she lived in the tavern? Bess set that aside. This other man. It did not seem much. ‘What happened to him? Do you know any more about him?’

‘Nothing comes to mind. But if I remember more I will send word.’

‘Were there any other people gone missing at the time?’

‘If you mean deaths no one marked, there are more than we care to know about every day among the poor in the city. Who knows how many are buried in the night in what the grieving hope will be safe ground?’

Bess did not argue the point, quite certain in her own mind that the men would not have come digging in the yards around the tavern at this particular time were the bones not connected to Tom. But she was now curious about something else Bea had said. ‘Does the news Dom Erkenwald has for Owen concern the Austin friar sought by the duke’s men? Both being in the Austin order I thought it possible.’

‘You miss nothing, do you?’ Queen Bea laughed. ‘We are much alike. Indeed it was. A friar recently sought shelter at St Leonard’s, but was denied, and they suspect he stole some church silver on his way out. No one has seen it since his departure.’

More thefts. No surprise. ‘Why was he sent away?’

‘The practical matter that they are a hospital, not an abbey, and do not provide lodgings for visitors. He made vague threats as he left, which is what has stayed with Erkenwald, nagging at him until he remembered the duke’s men and their search for a friar named Jerome. Of course the thief had called himself by another name – Joseph perhaps? By the time Erkenwald realized who he was Owen had left the city.’ As always, she purred Owen’s name.

‘The friar’s a slippery menace. He threatened my new maidservant, then disappeared. But why did Dom Erkenwald tell you of this? Did he want you to tell Owen?’

‘Alas, no. Merely sharing all that broke his resolve and drew him to my bedchamber.’

‘One more thing. My Tom. Was he … Did he frequent …?’

‘No. To my knowledge he stayed away from the brothels.’

That was a relief. Yet she was disappointed by how little she had learned and did not head straight home but wandered through the Bedern toward the minster, where she prayed for Tom’s safe return and swift healing. Blessed Mother, I beg you to intercede with your Son on my Tom’s behalf, and grant him a complete recovery from his injuries, both of body and of soul. Was that too greedy? He would never deign to ask for so much, but I love him so. Do not punish him for my need, I pray you.

The rain abated mid-afternoon, not long after they had paused for some food and ale in an abandoned house with a roof sound enough to provide shelter from the rain. Tom was fretful, eating little and slipping into a restless sleep. Owen debated with himself whether it would be best to stop earlier tonight or go on as planned so that Tom might be home in a warm bed by late morning the next day. He knew were he injured he would prefer to be home. Taking heart at the sudden halt in the rain he resolved to deliver Tom home quickly if at all possible, for the sooner he was under Magda’s care the better.

Ned, who had been riding silently next to Owen, Stephen taking his turn on the cart, suddenly leaned forward, peering ahead. ‘Something lying in the road. A fallen tree? No. Looks more like a body.’

Owen signaled for the party to stop while he and Ned dismounted and strung their bows.

Bertram rode forward. ‘Should I see what it is?’

‘It could be a trap,’ said Owen. ‘Wait until Ned is ready to cover you.’

Denis joined them. ‘Sir Ralph and Stephen are guarding the cart. What would you like me to do?’

‘Stay here, ready to ride forward if Bertram and Ned need you.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m going up onto that ridge.’ Owen looked to the left. ‘See what I can see from there. Ready?’ he asked Ned.

Raising his bow, Ned nodded.

Bertram rode forward and Owen headed up the ridge. He stopped to watch as Bertram reached the object.

‘A man,’ Bertram called, dismounting and crouching to the figure. ‘Bloody face. Limp.’ He leaned down to press an ear to the man’s chest. ‘Alive.’

From above, Owen readied an arrow and searched the woods and fields to either side of the road, behind and ahead.

‘Have a care with him!’ Denis called as Bertram lifted the injured man, whose arms began to flail.

Ned glanced up at Owen, who shook his head. This was not the time to break formation. Ned kept his place, but suddenly looked to the other side of the road. Owen had seen the movement as well, someone in the trees.

Bertram was lifting the man to his saddle when his mount reared up and both men fell backwards. Denis rode forward to help.

As everyone down below focused on the mound of men, Ned keeping his arrow ready for anything moving, the figure in the trees raised his handless arm, then the other, and motioned for Owen that the company should move on.

How had Martin managed to drag the man out onto the road with one hand? Or had he? Owen itched to ride over to find out, but that would alert the duke’s men to Martin’s presence. One more glance round, he nodded and rode down to the men on the road. Denis was helping Bertram to his horse, trying at the same time to calm the animal. Ned was kneeling to the bloody man and cleaning his face with a wet cloth.

Owen dismounted near him. ‘Where did you find water?’

‘Beneath that great stone beside the road. Thought we should see who this is, and how badly he’s injured. Worse now since the fall with Bertram.’

‘This one was fortunate to be on top.’

‘Jolted, though.’

The man moaned as Ned gently wiped the blood away and gradually revealed a cut over the left eye, and a broken nose. ‘Bolt, I think. The one with David and Carl on our journey here.’

One dead, one caught. ‘Let’s hope he can eventually talk,’ said Owen. ‘I think we’ll find a lump on his head if we examine it more fully.’ The other injuries would not have him in a faint. He leaned close and said in a normal voice, ‘Bolt, we’re going to lift your head.’ No response.

As Owen lifted, Ned reached beneath the man’s head. ‘And there’s the lump.’ His hand came away bloody. ‘Not nearly so bad as David’s bashed-in head. He was lucky.’

This was likely Martin’s work, just enough to cope with the body one-handed, though still a feat of strength and balance to drag him.

Ned wiped his hand on the cloth. ‘I wonder how long before he wakes and gives us trouble.’

‘I prefer knowing where this one is.’

‘True enough.’

That the man still lived after losing much blood and lying out in the cold with so little cover meant he’d not been in the road long.

‘So what do we do with him?’ Ned asked.

Owen had already begun tearing part of Bolt’s shirt for bandages. Dirty, but they would staunch the blood until they reached shelter. ‘I’ll bandage the worst of it. Then we tie his wrists and ankles, wrap him in a skin, and put him in the cart, as far from Tom as possible.’

‘Comfort the b—?’

‘I cannot in good conscience leave him here to die.’ No matter how much he wanted to.

‘Course not, Captain. I just—’

Owen patted Ned’s shoulder. ‘I feel the same.’ He worked to wrap the man’s head. ‘Help me bind him.’

When they were finished, Stephen came from the cart to carry him.

‘In here?’ Brother Michaelo snapped.

‘It’s Carl Brimsby’s friend Bolt,’ said Owen. ‘We might learn something.’

Michaelo sniffed, then leaned toward Tom, shook his head, whispered a reply.

‘How is he?’ Owen asked.

‘Feverish, fretful. He asked whether this will slow us down. I would guess you are more eager than ever to reach York.’

‘I am.’

‘Am I expected to see to Bolt?’

‘No. Let him be.’ Owen climbed in, found a clean bandage, and gagged Bolt. ‘He may make noise, but at least he won’t jabber.’

Bertram rode up to the wagon, battered, but sitting astride with apparent ease. ‘Is he conscious?’

‘Hardly,’ said Owen. ‘Enough to groan. With luck he won’t wake until we’ve stopped for the night.’

‘Who put him there, that’s what I want to know.’ Bertram looked back down the road they’d traversed. ‘Someone wanted us to find him.’

Not trusting what Bertram would do with that information Owen said, ‘For good or ill. It could still be meant as a trap. Stay alert. Are you all right to ride?’

‘Of course I am.’

Not since childhood had Bess felt this flutter of doubt in her chest as she inspected the bedchamber, or perhaps before her first husband’s mother came to see their newborn. A whisp of memory, Will’s mother so delighted by the infant she declared everything perfect. But the occasion of the Riverwoman’s visit would not lend itself to such joy.

When the knock came she brushed a stray curl from her face, said a silent prayer, and opened the door to Magda Digby.

The healer set two baskets on the floor and took Bess’s hands in hers. As before, her touch sent a calming warmth coursing through Bess, and the blue gaze steadied her. ‘Hast thou had any word of thy husband?’

‘Nothing yet. But Owen said the earliest they might return was yesterday.’ Friday. Tom had been gone almost a fortnight. If they did not return by tonight, would they wait out the Sabbath on the road? She prayed they would not.

Magda walked round the room. ‘A peaceful bedchamber with good light, air, and a brazier. He will be most comfortable here.’

‘I will sleep in another room with my daughter. Would you like a cot in here?’

‘Magda will not sleep when with him.’

‘You will not be staying?’ Bess heard her voice crack.

‘Magda will stay as long as she is needed. Even so, whoever is in this room with Tom should be awake and alert for the first few days.’

‘You can take my bed when I relieve you.’

‘The time for planning such things is once he is settled and Magda sees how he bore the journey.’

Imagining the horror of traveling when injured and feverish twisted Bess’s heart. ‘We should have gone to him.’

‘He will be safer here, with Bird-eye and his men on guard. Of course thou art worried, but do not forget that thou art surrounded by those who wish to help thee.’

Another moment of peace as Magda touched her shoulder and smiled into her eyes, her white hair shimmering through Bess’s tears.

‘Bless you for coming, Dame Magda. Do you need anything? Some ale?’

‘When Magda returns, yes. First she must speak with thy neighbor Lucie.’

‘If you would ask her for any news …’

‘Of course.’

As she watched Magda depart Bess felt like a child whose mother had left her alone to go to market, the tavern suddenly frightening, too large, too strange.

Mary hurried by, Issy close behind carrying bedclothes. They clumped up a flight of steps, Mary giving instructions in a cheery voice. A good sign. She liked the new girl. So did Bess.

In the workshop, Lucie hummed to herself, relieved to have arrived first thing to find the shop tidy and open and Jasper already helping a customer. She considered it a sign that he had taken George Hempe’s warning to heart. Even so, as the day wore on she understood that she would not be entirely at ease about Jasper until Owen returned.

‘Is Magda interrupting?’

Lucie had not been aware of the door opening. ‘No. Come in. Are you setting up the bedchamber at the tavern?’

‘This very day. Bess hoped thou wouldst have some news of the travelers?’

‘No news. And I pray they return today. They might not wish to travel on Sunday.’

‘Tom’s welfare will be their first concern. Which is why Magda is here. Thy healing sleep powder with valerian and lavender would be good for him.’

She felt honored, knowing Magda made an excellent sleep potion. ‘I will prepare some.’

‘Thou might suggest Bess use a small amount as well.’

‘I’ve already given her something, but this might be better.’ Stronger, but Magda would be with Tom when Bess slept. ‘I will think how best to broach that with her. You will be staying there?’

‘As long as he needs Magda’s presence.’

Lucie was glad for Bess. She knew the comfort of having Magda in the house when someone was ill.

Nineteen

Trotter’s Farm

Dark had fallen by the time the company reached Trotter’s farm, the home of Hempe’s old friend. His wife, Kit, was a frequent visitor to Lucie’s apothecary for tinctures for her unruly brood of children. Welcoming the traveling party, the couple quickly prepared a pallet for Tom by the fire circle and assured Sir Ralph and Owen that the family would be more than comfortable sleeping in the barn for one night. Though Owen and his men would be equally comfortable there, they insisted.

‘I’ve a shelf of Dame Lucie’s tinctures and salves over there.’ Kit motioned toward a shelf groaning with jars and waxed parchment pouches. ‘Use whatever you need for those men. And yourselves.’ She glanced at Bertram. ‘You look as if you fell off your horse.’ He was limping and clearly in pain. ‘I’ve a good rub for aching joints. One of my husband’s old shirts should fit the gagged one. I can give you more bandages to replace those bloody rags, I make certain to have a basketful for the children.’

Brother Michaelo joined Owen as he collected the supplies from the organized woman, then helped see to the injured. When they’d done all they could for the moment and Tom was asleep, Michaelo asked if they might step outside.

‘Just for a moment.’

Struck by the monk’s worried expression, Owen took a lantern and led him out to a lightning-blasted oak near the barn. Once standing beneath it he motioned for silence, listening for spies. When satisfied they were likely alone, he nodded. ‘What is it, Brother Michaelo? Something about Tom?’

A nod. ‘Once when Tom woke and saw Bolt he hissed and struggled to sit up, asking what he was doing in the cart. I asked if he knew him and he said he’d forgotten, but seeing him, he thought he was one of the men who attacked him. I had a time assuring him that the man could not harm him, that you had made sure of that. But it’s not good for Tom to be given such a fright.’

Bolt had taken part in the attack. ‘That is helpful.’ This was as close to proof as he’d come. ‘And you’re right. Best he not ride in the cart. He can finish the journey on Ned’s horse. We’ll secure him.’

‘A fitting penance. That is not all. Before we worked on Bolt, Stephen took off his gag to give him some water and the man cursed Carl, said he’d left him to the one-handed devil.’

Owen relaxed a little. Bolt was a gift from Martin, not a trick. And now he knew that Carl, too, had been on the road to York.

‘You look pleased.’

Owen explained why. ‘I am glad you accompanied me on this journey. We work well together.’

‘I am gratified that you notice.’

Michaelo was about to say more, but Owen shook his head and called out, ‘Who goes there?’

Denis stepped into the lantern light. ‘Could we talk, Captain?’

Brother Michaelo bowed. ‘Shall I leave?’

Owen shook his head. ‘We’ve but the one lantern, and I prefer you hear anything of import. What is it, Denis?’

‘Has Martin Wirthir been following us?’ the Frenchman asked.

Came right to the point. ‘Why would you think so?’

‘You saw someone or something up on the ridge, maybe the person who left Carl Brimsby’s friend in the road?’ When Owen hesitated to answer, Denis added, ‘I will not tell Bertram, I swear to you.’

‘Why do you think it was Martin?’

‘I caught a glimpse of an arm raised, no hand. You can trust me. Ambrose would never forgive me were I to betray you in any way.’

That was true. But this was Denis, not Ambrose. ‘How would you react were you to meet Ambrose’s former lover face to face?’

‘I am most curious about him. I would hope to have the opportunity to ask many questions so that I might return to Ambrose with news. He would treasure that. You have seen him?’

‘If you speak a word of this to Bertram or Sir Ralph—’

‘Even Sir Ralph?’ A little nod. ‘I will say nothing.’

Owen picked up the lantern and moved toward the house with Brother Michaelo. Denis joined them.

‘If he should appear in York … as I said, I would like to meet him.’

‘Difficult with Bertram at your side.’

‘I would find a way.’

‘We will see.’

Once inside, Michaelo checked on Tom, and Owen joined Stephen and Ned. They had work to do this night.

Owen held a lantern to light the way for Ned and Stephen who carried Bolt to the shed behind the house. They tossed him into the unheated space for the night, shut the door, and returned to the house loudly laughing about how cold the prisoner would be out there, no fire, how he’d likely piss all over himself in the night, bound up as he was. Once back in the warm house with the door shut behind them they quietly nodded to each other, the first part of the plan accomplished. Owen hoped the performance stirred Bolt’s friend or friends to action.

And now for the second part. Some moments later, Stephen quietly slipped out into the dark with a shuttered lantern to watch from behind the house for any would-be rescuers. Ned silently settled by the front door to stop any intruder trying to reach Tom. Carrying a few blankets, Owen stole out to the shed to join Bolt, settling down as far from the prisoner as possible.

In the darkness he thought about the Brimsbys, wondering when they’d turned toward the darkness. Dame Ann’s crippling? Helena’s incomplete recovery from the fever? Or did each individually choose the path of anger and hatred in their own hellish moments? What had turned Carl against his father? John Grey? Where was Will Grey? So many questions.

Muffled noises from Bolt, kicks. Perhaps he’d awakened and sensed Owen. Let him wonder. After a while, Bolt went quiet.

A sound outside. Owen took up position by the door, dagger ready. The door creaked as it opened, a tread. Owen put the dagger to the intruder’s neck, twisted his right arm until he cried out and a weapon hit the ground. In a moment Stephen appeared, lantern opened just enough to reveal that it was Carl Brimsby Owen held.

‘After your friend Bolt, were you?’ Owen threw Carl to the ground and stepped on his lower back. ‘We expected you.’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ came the muffled reply.

‘Small blessings,’ Owen muttered as he and Stephen bound the man’s wrists and ankles. ‘Enjoy the cold with your friend.’

Owen collected his blanket and the fallen weapon, a well-balanced dagger, and left the shed, Stephen behind, locking it this time.

The plan had gone well. Stephen bedded down across the door of the shed, Ned nearby, and Owen returned to the house, settling down across the door within. He eased into sleep.

Sometime in the night a faraway cry woke him. Animal or human? Only one, impossible to tell. Owen was already up, tugging on his boots, when Bertram crouched to him.

‘I’ll check on the Trotters.’

‘Not you. I’ll go,’ said Owen. ‘Stay here and guard the door.’

He took up the lantern and, as he opened the door, Denis joined him.

‘Pairs in the dark.’

Outside, they checked Ned and Stephan, both unharmed. Wakeful, though, and wondering, offering to join Owen and Denis, but they were best where they were. In the quiet barn Kit stirred, came to them.

‘You heard it, too?’ she asked. ‘I could not tell what it was, but it was down toward the beck.’ She pointed.

They moved toward the sound of water, scattering a bird. Owen shone the light on the bank. Muddy footprints, but no telling whether from the Trotters, Carl Brimsby, or another night visitor.

‘Here,’ Denis said softly, ‘a branch down.’

Owen brought the lantern. Scuffled prints, blood on the fallen branch, fresh. Not Carl’s, he’d not been injured. They moved up and down the bank, found a track of blood, not much, disappearing into the water. Shuttering the lantern Owen stood still, listening. Nothing now, animals and birds waiting for them to leave.

‘I pray it’s not Martin’s blood,’ said Denis.

‘As do I.’

Owen woke near dawn and stoked the fire to heat water for Magda’s soothing physick. Tom stirred, tried to sit up. Rolling up a blanket, Owen tucked it beneath his friend’s head.

‘Home today. Drink this. It will warm you for the journey.’

‘Where did you go in the night?’

His curiosity was a good sign. Quietly, Owen told Tom as he helped him drink.

‘The prisoners’ friends?’ Tom asked.

‘Could be. We’re close to home, and all on alert. Do not worry.’

The others began to rise, moving about quietly.

With a sigh, Tom lay back on the rolled-up blanket. ‘Have you ever confessed … a shameful deed … to Lucie?’

Owen thought of a difficult confession on his return from Wales, how sure he had been that nothing would ever be the same between them. ‘I have.’

‘How did she … receive it?’

‘Far better than I deserved.’ Owen lifted Tom for another drink. ‘I expect the same for you. Bess swallowed her feelings about Magda and went to her for help – that makes it clear to me she loves you so deeply it would take a great deal to sway her.’

‘You are a good friend.’

Michaelo joined them. ‘I will prepare a hot broth while you stretch your legs, Captain.’ In Owen’s ear, Michaelo asked, ‘Did it go as planned?’

Owen nodded.

‘And later, the cry?’

‘We found blood by the beck, signs of a struggle, but nothing else. Tom knows this.’

Michaelo crossed himself.

‘I need to ready myself and the others for this last part of the journey,’ Owen said to Tom. ‘Ask Brother Michaelo for anything you need.’ He pressed Tom’s hand. ‘You will be home soon.’

Another morning of cold mist followed the hard rain of the previous day, icy on the face, clearing Owen’s mind as he headed to check on the prisoners. Ned and Stephen awaited him there. He’d let them know as he returned in the night what he and Denis had found by the beck and neither looked like they’d slept since. Good that they did not have far to go this day. The three stepped into the shed just as Bertram and Denis came round the house. Owen closed the door behind him.

Inside, Carl glared at Owen. ‘Is he your friend, the one-handed devil?’

Bastard would stir trouble. Owen knocked him out with the handle of his own dagger. ‘Gag him,’ Owen told Stephen. ‘We’ll bind both of them to Ned’s horse.’ He opened the shed door and nodded to the duke’s men. ‘Before we leave I want to search the area. Denis and Ned with me. Bertram, help Stephen with Carl and Bolt.’

‘You don’t trust me,’ said Bertram.

‘You are limping this morning, so of more use here.’

Owen led Ned and Denis down to the barn, where the family was stirring.

‘We want to search your land,’ said Owen, ‘but we need a guide.’

Trotter stepped forward. ‘Best I go.’

Fields bounded by trees, gradually dipping down to the beck, then rising the other side, disappearing into the mist. Buds plumping out on the trees and in the underbrush. A fine farm. On the near bank, by the broken branch, two clear boot prints spoke of one larger, heavier man. Grey? They found some blood on the far bank, and the heavy print. Up a slope an indentation beneath a tree where someone had settled down. Not much blood. No signs of another.

‘Unless it was an animal bloodied him, the other is good at leaving little trace,’ said Trotter.

‘Do you want me to leave one of my men?’ Owen asked.

‘My thanks for the offer, but no need. We’re accustomed to seeing to ourselves.’

As the party set out, the Trotter family waving and wishing them an easy journey, Sir Ralph brought his horse beside Owen’s.

‘You have not asked, but I’m skilled with a dagger if we are attacked.’

‘I did not mean to imply—’

‘That is not why I mention it. But our prisoners and the cry in the night, the blood, I wanted you to know I won’t expect to be defended.’

‘It had not occurred to me that you would.’

Sir Ralph nodded, satisfied. ‘Are you worried this will be the dangerous stretch?’

‘We’re close to York, and last night has us all on alert,’ said Owen. ‘But unless Grey has a large, trained party, we should prevail.’

Sir Ralph said nothing for a while. ‘You appear to be right about Carl Brimsby. But why? Why would he become involved with John Grey?’

‘He may not be. He might simply be convinced Tom is his father’s attacker and meant to avenge him.’

‘I’m doubting that. The cry. I don’t think it was just Bolt and Carl following us.’

‘Grey might have offered wealth. Bertram and Denis took only the three most incriminating pieces stolen in his hidden cache. And having found one in York I’d guess there are more. Grey doesn’t work alone. Not just his wife. I’m sure there are others.’ He was thinking of Helena’s steady stream of visitors and the man who had thrown Jed off the landing.

‘Bolt’s body on the road. A secret helper?’

Owen heard a horse coming up behind them. ‘We’ll talk when we reach York.’

Sir Ralph glanced back, nodded. ‘I will leave you in peace now.’ He reined in his horse.

Denis rode up to take his place.

‘I’ve had enough talk for now,’ said Owen.

Denis nodded. ‘I’ve seen nothing so far this morning. But I am watching. I would guess he is out there as well.’

‘Everyone should be on alert.’

At the sight of Walmgate Bar Owen’s spirits lifted. A momentary joy, for Tom had succumbed to fever and had lost consciousness shortly after they departed the Trotter home.

Sir Ralph offered to deliver the prisoners to the castle, where he would arrange for a barber surgeon to see to their wounds. ‘Their friends will not risk entering the castle precinct. They will be safe there until you have time to question them.’

Owen nodded toward the mounts made skittish by the writhing and muffled complaints of the pair slung over their backs. ‘I appreciate the offer, but you cannot handle them by yourself. I need Ned and Stephen to help me with Tom and the cart.’ He looked to Bertram and Denis. ‘Would you accompany Sir Ralph?’

‘We’re not your men to order about,’ Bertram growled.

‘He did not order, he asked, and he has a point,’ said Denis. ‘I will gladly assist, Sir Ralph.’

‘They might assist you with your mission if they know anything of John Grey and the friar,’ Owen reminded Bertram.

‘Bollocks,’ Bertram muttered. Brushing past Owen he said quietly, ‘I know who helped us with them on the journey. Who left Bolt in the road.’

‘Help? Bolt slowed us down, if you hadn’t noticed. And Carl likely brought trouble in the night.’

Bertram scowled at Owen, but his eyes moved as if he were reconsidering what he thought he knew.

‘We will talk soon, Captain,’ said Sir Ralph.

At the stables, Owen helped Stephen move Tom to a large hand cart, then joined Brother Michaelo.

‘Thank you for traveling on a Sunday morning.’

‘I will spend most of this day in prayer,’ said Michaelo, ‘but I could not in good conscience delay delivering Tom into Dame Magda’s care. And I will accompany you to the York Tavern, to tell Dame Bess and Dame Magda all that I noticed while tending Tom in the cart. I am worried about the fever.’

Owen shared his concern. ‘We knew the journey would be difficult for him, the cold, the jostling. Bolt’s appearance did not help. I am grateful for your care of him. That cart could not have been comfortable.’

A small smile. ‘I am that much closer to heaven.’

Stephen pushed the cart down Walmgate and across the Foss, Owen and Ned keeping his path clear of the people trying to catch a glimpse of the still form in the cart, Michaelo walking beside it, praying. Despite it being Sunday morning, the procession attracted a noisy crowd.

‘Praying for our Tom.’

‘May he quickly heal.’

‘Catch the monsters who beat him!’

‘Bless you, Captain.’

The calls were the heralds bringing out more to watch their passing.

By the time they turned down Stonegate even Stephen looked exhausted.

‘Let me take over,’ said Ned, a hand on his friend’s broad shoulder.

‘Now you offer? When we can see the tavern?’ Stephen’s laugh echoed between the buildings hugging the street as he waved Ned away. ‘You and the others can carry him in.’

Twenty

Homecoming

Bess rushed out from the tavern as Stephen pushed the cart into the yard, the ribbons on her coif dancing wildly. ‘Tom! My Tom! You are home, love.’ She stood on tiptoe to touch his forehead, pressed a palm to it and glanced at Owen with frightened eyes. ‘How long has he burned like this?’

‘Only this morning, on the road. Brother Michaelo sat in the cart with him all the way. He can tell you more.’

Tears falling, she touched Owen’s cheek, turned to touch Tom again, then went to Michaelo, putting her arms round him. ‘Bless you for riding with him.’

Michaelo hesitated, then gently embraced her and said something Owen could not hear, but could see calmed her … a little.

Owen called to Ned to help him carry Tom, Tupper and Stephen coming to assist. The procession moved past Michaelo, Bess, Magda, and Mary, who huddled together, into the tavern where the few lodgers broke out in cheers that quickly died as they saw the state of their friend. Past the tavern room Owen took Tom in his arms while Ned opened the door he indicated, Bess and Tom’s bedchamber. The airy room already smelled of Magda’s calming herbs. Setting Tom down on the bed, Owen withdrew as Bess and Magda began removing the traveling blankets and skins.

Before he left, Owen thanked Magda for Sandrine’s help. ‘Had she not taken over his care I am not sure he would have survived.’

‘She is a skilled healer.’ Magda reached up to touch a point between Owen’s brows, what she called his third eye. ‘Thou art weighed down with responsibility and weary from the journey. There is much yet to resolve, but thou must rest mind and body. Go to thy family as soon as thou mayest. Therein lies thy solace.’

‘I entrust him to you, my friend.’

Out in the tavern room, Mary offered him a tankard, her worried eyes seeking information. But Magda was right, he needed to see Lucie, be with his family. He took the ale with thanks and left, finding Lucie waiting just beyond the door.

Despite his filthy state he set down his tankard and embraced her. ‘My love.’

Smiling through tears, she searched his face, gently touching the scar that showed beneath his patch. ‘I am so glad you are home.’

Weary and heart-heavy as he was, he received her touch as an offering of grace. She anchored him here, in family and community, a life he had not dreamed possible for himself when they’d met. ‘You are well? And the children?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘All well. And if anyone can bring Tom back to health it is Magda. You know this.’

‘That is what pushed us to travel on a Sunday. I pray the journey has not undone what the healer in Beverley accomplished. This morning he woke cool, yet on the last part of the journey a fever came on despite all our care.’

‘Brother Michaelo told me.’ Lucie kissed his cheek and took his free hand. ‘I will just step in to deliver a sleep powder to Magda. Then come home with me?’

‘Gladly.’

Owen drained his tankard and handed it to Tupper in the doorway. ‘My compliments to Mary.’

Bess sat by the table observing Magda’s ministrations and awaiting orders, jumping up to help turn Tom, bringing more cushions, fetching cups of the tisane and broth kept warm near the brazier. In between she prayed for Tom’s healing in body and mind.

Yesterday’s prayers in the minster, that he would fully heal … Seeing his condition – thin, bruised, pierced, broken, so weak – she could not imagine how he might ever be the Tom who had departed a fortnight earlier. Such suffering must scar him, body and soul. Blessed Mother, I see now my error, that suffering changes us, no matter how skilled the healers of mind and body. I pray that my Tom should find ease and peace. That is my wish for him. And no matter the scars he carries forward, I will love him with all my being until my last breath and beyond.

Magda joined her at the table, putting an arm round her and holding one of her hands.

But Bess’s comfort was unimportant. ‘I had not … He is so diminished.’

‘Do not despair,’ said Magda. ‘He is strong, despite what days of suffering and not eating have done to his flesh. As long as he wishes to come through this, he will. Dame Sandrine packed the wounds with the best herbs and all else was done with skill. The journey set him back, but not to the beginning.’

‘My last words to him were unkind. I cannot forgive myself for that. Why did I say such hurtful things?’

‘Thou wilt make up for that a hundredfold. For tonight, it will be best for two to watch over him. Magda will be one of the watchers. And thou? Or Mary?’

‘Sleep will be impossible for me until he rouses. I will watch with you.’ And perhaps her heart might allow her to accept comfort in Magda’s presence.

Hugh and Emma flung themselves on Owen when he stepped over the kitchen threshold, giggling about how he smelled, but not shying away. Gwen stood to one side, waiting her turn. He knelt to hug her.

‘You really do stink, Da,’ she whispered, backing away and primly brushing herself off.

For a moment he believed her rebuff, then caught the twinkle in her eye and the telltale dimple though she tried not to smile. ‘Shall I leave?’ he asked.

‘No, Da! I was teasing!’ She flung her arms round him, giggling. ‘But you do need to wash.’

His baby girl, eleven and maturing so fast. ‘Your wish is my command.’

‘I’ll take the little ones away so you can bathe.’ Gwen motioned for Hugh and Emma to follow her to the hall. When they continued to dawdle, Kate shooed them out.

‘Soon I won’t recognize her,’ said Owen.

‘The responsibility she’s taken on is changing her, as it should,’ Lucie said. ‘But she will always hold you first in her heart.’

‘Until she is wed.’ Owen shook himself. ‘Enough of that. I stink!’

A tub of hot water sat by the kitchen fire, a three-sided wooden screen set up for privacy. Owen shed his travel-stained clothing and climbed into the tub, wincing at first at the heat, then sinking down into it and feeling it unravel the knots in his body.

‘Warm enough?’ Lucie asked. She’d stripped down to her shift and knelt beside the tub.

‘Glorious.’ He ran his hand down her bare arm. ‘Why not join me?’

She kissed his hand. ‘Too distracting. Wet your hair and I’ll scrub.’

He sank into the water, staying so long she reached down for him and he almost succeeded in pulling her in. As he surfaced she splashed him, laughing, then got to work.

While massaging soap and oils into his hair she told him of Jasper’s morning disappearances, his sighting of the friar, and his regret when the man frightened Bess’s new maidservant.

Owen sucked in his breath at the friar’s threat. ‘If he so much as—’

Lucie silenced him with a kiss. ‘George Hempe and Alfred are watching. They will tell you all about it.’

‘You must have been worried about Jasper when he didn’t open the shop.’

‘I thought he was searching for Martin. Did you know that he walks round the parish of a morning whenever you are away? I had no idea.’

‘Nor I. What would he do if he found trouble?’

‘Call on George? Alfred? I don’t know. Best you discuss it with him.’

He focused for a moment on the pleasure of her hands kneading his back. But he had so much to tell her. ‘I saw Martin in Beverley.’

‘Martin.’ Her hands stilled.

‘He says that saving Jasper was his greatest achievement. He has watched him from afar, seen that he’s grown into a fine young man.’

Lucie sat back on her heels. ‘You must tell Jasper.’ She handed him a cloth soaked in the soapy oil. ‘For your feet.’

He laughed. ‘Mary Magdalene washed Christ’s feet, but you won’t wash mine?’

‘Work a miracle and I will.’ She kissed him and once again resisted his effort to pull her in. ‘Truly, tell Jasper. It will mean so much to him.’

‘It’s possible Martin will be able to tell our son himself. He helped us along the way. He might visit before going home to Lille.’

‘Home. I have never thought of him having a home.’

‘Nor I.’

There was a loud thud in the hall followed by Emma’s wail.

‘Go help Kate and Gwen,’ said Owen. ‘We will talk more tonight.’

Lucie returned in a moment. ‘Kate said all is well.’

He pulled her down for a more serious kiss. Then it was a matter of hastily drying and dressing and leading her up to the bedchamber for a more satisfying homecoming. As they passed through the hall the children were laughing and dancing a jig. All was indeed well.

Back downstairs, Lucie served Owen a venison stew. As he recounted the journey, all that he’d heard and seen, she noticed the shadow beneath his good eye, the line between his brows. He was weary and worried, tugged in so many directions, so many loyalties, this strong, honorable man she loved more than her life, and she wished his duties might ease, that they would have more quiet moments together – hours, days, weeks of peace – but she could not see how that would happen. He was who he was, and she loved him for all of it. All this she thought while listening, amazed by how much he had managed in so short a time. Yet he clearly felt he could have done more.

‘As you see, I’m little closer to knowing why Tom was chased and why he was attacked, or by whom. And though Martin’s presence makes me think Bolt was his gift, until I talk to him I cannot be sure. Either way, I’ve no doubt trouble has followed us back to York.’

‘Is it the sort of thing Martin would do, leaving Bolt in the road for you to find, drawing Carl to the Trotters’ shed?’ She watched him relax.

‘Yes. I climbed up on a ridge to search the area and saw him across the road. He motioned to me to go on. I pray that last night—’

‘As do I. And I hope Martin knows you need to see that he is well. Or let you help him.’

He breathed out, nodded.

She kissed him. ‘The Alcocks proved good friends to Tom. Without them—’

‘Fearless generosity and compassion. Quite a family.’

‘Nicholas’s cousin Piers as well, coming straight here to tell us upon returning from Beverley.’ She had more to say about Piers and his pretty daughter, but that could wait. ‘What you learned about Tom at Holcomb Manor, to be accused of theft in his grief, saying he stole the wood for his wife’s coffin … Why weren’t the Brimsbys sent off long ago?’

‘Sir Ralph accepts the blame for his neglect of the manor. He regrets it.’

‘As he should.’ Wealthy, powerful, and careless of the welfare of those who worked his land. ‘I still don’t understand who attacked Tom, or why. And why Harry Brimsby’s son is part of all this. What does John Grey hold over that family?’

‘His wife is a Brimsby, Harry’s sister. She may be the one controlling them all.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘I don’t know.’ A haunted look.

‘What is it?’

‘The family is said to be cursed. Dame Sandrine suggested such a branding can poison a person. I asked Michaelo if he believes in evil incarnate.’ Owen shivered and pushed away from the table. ‘I should have talked to more people.’

She regretted asking for more. ‘You learned a great deal in very little time, my love. Seeing to Tom’s return was your priority. Beverley was not a safe place for him.’ She was pulled into Owen’s embrace. He kissed her as if for the first time today.

‘You are everything to me, Lucie. Lover, friend, wise one. Everything.’

To be so loved … ‘You are all that to me, my love.’ She was kissing him back when she noticed a movement down the table. Hugh. ‘We have an audience,’ she whispered.

His head crooked to one side, Hugh said, ‘When you’re finished kissing, come see how strong my arms are, Da. Jasper says I’m almost ready for my own bow.’

They both laughed.

When Owen accompanied Hugh out to the garden Lucie followed, but not to watch, that was between father and son.

‘I’ll check whether Jasper’s returned from a Sunday walk with Piers Alcock’s daughter Juliana.’

Owen looked surprised. ‘He is in love?’

She laughed, calling over her shoulder, ‘Time will tell.’ Juliana had twice come to the apothecary the past week to purchase sundry items, and today Jasper had gone to walk with her after Sunday mass, clearly prearranged, though he said he woke with the idea.

Hugh dropped the large, trimmed limb as it began to rain. ‘Jasper says rain is the enemy of the bow string.’ His bottom lip trembled with disappointment.

Owen crouched to his ginger-haired son. ‘That is true. But you’re not yet using a bow, and beneath the eaves we should stay dry, eh?’

Grief forgotten, Hugh moved closer to the house. He took his stance, glancing down to check the position of his feet. ‘Ready, Da?’

‘Ready.’

With a huff, Hugh lifted the limb and held it straight out in his right hand. His breath at first came in gasps.

‘Breathe deep,’ said Owen, softly.

Hugh’s breath steadied, deepened, and as the time lengthened his effort showed in a fierce scowl. When at last Hugh dropped his arm to his side, Owen rubbed his shoulder and proclaimed him remarkably advanced. It was true.

‘Am I ready, Da?’

Just yesterday he had held the boy in his arms, rocking him to sleep, and now he was ready for his first bow. ‘I believe you are.’ How easily he forgot that his son was eight, just shy of Jasper’s age when he began training him.

Hugh grabbed Owen’s hands and danced him in a circle. ‘I’m going in to tell Ma!’ He started for the kitchen door.

‘She went to the workshop, remember? If Jasper is in there with her, would you tell him I am eager to see him?’

‘Course, Da.’ The boy hurried off to the workshop.

Owen lingered outside, scanning garden and wall for a watcher – Friar Jerome, John Grey, Helena Brimsby Grey, Bertram, Martin … Nothing obvious.

‘Da!’ Jasper came hurrying from the workshop. ‘I’m glad you’re home. Juliana and I heard people talking about Tom’s return.’

‘Piers Alcock’s daughter? I am grateful to him and his cousin for their care of Tom.’

‘Juliana’s proud of them.’

Owen put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘As I am of you. You’ve trained Hugh well.’

‘He’s worked hard. And now he’s excited about his first bow.’

‘Which means we have work to do.’

‘You’ll let me help?’

‘All three of us will work on it. First we need to find the right branch to shape a strong, supple bow.’

‘I could ask Dame Magda where we might find a good one.’

Kate came to the kitchen door. ‘Are you hungry after your walk, Jasper?’

He grinned. ‘I am.’

‘We can talk while you eat.’ With one last glance round the garden, Owen followed his son inside.

After his first few bites, Jasper sat back. ‘You want to hear about the friar.’

‘Among other things. I know my absences weigh heavily on you. As the oldest man in the household you take responsibility for the family’s safety even though I make certain Hempe and our men watch out for you.’

‘Mother told you.’ Jasper brushed the straw-colored hair from his eyes and shrugged. ‘Just feels better to check. You would do the same.’

Owen grinned. ‘I would. You did well to watch for the friar. And I’m glad once you told Hempe you left it to him.’

‘That was hard, but I knew he was right to make me promise. What do you think the friar wants? Is he even a friar?’

‘Two of the many questions I need to answer.’

‘I’m glad you’re home, Da. And Tom, too. Will he … People are saying he lay as if dead in the cart, all bandaged and swollen.’

‘He was badly injured. But Magda provided physicks for a skilled healer in Beverley and he is much better than when I first saw him. Except for this morning’s fever …’ Owen closed his eye, pushing away a litany of self-recrimination.

Jasper put his hand on Owen’s. ‘You brought him home, where he is being cared for. No one could have done more.’

To hear his son say so was a gift Owen would treasure. ‘Always more to do. But tell me about Juliana Alcock.’

‘She’s nice, Da. Smart. Funny.’

‘And very pretty.’

A grin. ‘Isn’t she?’ Jasper sighed. ‘I like her family and I think they like me.’

‘Of course they do.’

‘But – I want to make sure this time. I want to know her well, her, not my idea of her, before I, you know …’

‘Lose your heart?’ As if it were possible to avoid. But Owen did not want to discourage his son’s efforts to keep his feet planted on the ground. ‘That can be a struggle.’

‘I’ve discovered that. But I was so sure about Alisoun, and so wrong. And it hurt so much.’

‘And now you’ve found someone who gives you joy. I’m glad.’ Owen glanced over at Jasper’s bow in the corner. ‘Sunday practice?’

‘The weather’s wrong for practice at the butts today. But I planned to head over to see to anyone braving the wet, coax them inside to talk about the care of bows, strings, types of fletching. You don’t need to worry about that today.’

‘You are a remarkable young man.’

From his seat at the table with Magda, Owen watched Bess spoon broth into Tom’s slightly opened mouth.

‘He is cooler,’ Bess said, ‘and swallowing the broth.’ For a moment, Tom opened his uninjured eye, but he neither blinked nor focused, and quickly closed it. ‘Did you see that?’

‘He is not yet ready to be here,’ said Magda, ‘but he knew thee earlier, at the Trotter home, did he not, Bird-eye?’

‘He knew me and Brother Michaelo. Dame Sandrine as well,’ said Owen. ‘And just this morning he was excited about reaching home.’

Bess bowed her head. ‘I must be patient.’

As must they all. ‘Did you know the midwife Marietta, Magda?’ Owen asked.

‘Magda knows only what Sandrine wrote in the note she tucked into the basket of salves and physicks, what she had noticed of the dead midwife’s work when tending Tom’s injuries. She said he might have healed more quickly had Marietta known how to pack such a deep knife wound—’

‘I should have—’

‘No. Thy duty was to see to Tom’s safe journey home. Thou hast succeeded. Now Magda, Bess, and thy wife will provide all he needs to heal.’

‘But the fever. He had none until this morning. Might someone have done something to cause it?’ But who? Brother Michaelo had been with him all the while. When he was outside last night?

‘Healing is like an arrow’s flight aimed high, rising to an arc that might seem the healing point, but descending into complexities. How quickly he cooled is a good sign, but he has much weighing on his mind and heart, and a long healing ahead of him. All must be patient. He will heal as he will. Thou hast done well to bring him home. Now thy duty is to see to the safety of all in this place, and thy family.’ Magda touched the cheek beneath Owen’s blind eye and said nothing for a moment. ‘Didst thou encounter Pirate on thy journey?’

‘You knew?’

A soft laugh. ‘Magda guessed. Thou art worried about him.’

He told her about the cry in the night, the broken branches and blood near the beck, the signs of a larger man, and how Martin had helped along the way. ‘I worry he’s injured and alone out beyond the city.’

‘Kit Trotter will see to him if he is there. Pirate would know to trust them. Thou didst.’

He would. ‘When do you think Tom might waken enough to talk?’

‘Patience. Magda will send for thee when it happens.’

Owen found Mary waiting for him in the doorway to the tavern room.

‘Mother learned more while you were gone. Shall we talk in her parlor? It’s not much, and she will have more details.’

She told him about Bess’s idea regarding the diggers and her visit to Queen Bea, learning of a man who might possibly be the one whose grave someone sought, Jules’s rival for Helena, that Helena might have stayed at the tavern with Jules, and that Erkenwald had met Friar Jerome.

Helena and Jules? So Tom may have met her again in York shortly after leaving the manor. ‘That is helpful. Thank you.’

‘Are we in danger, Captain?’

‘Hempe, my men, and I are doing everything we can to keep you safe.’

When he rose, she stepped around the table and held him for a moment. ‘Bless you, Captain. Bless you for bringing him home. And the Alcocks for taking him in when he was taken to Beverley.’

He sensed Magda watching from the doorway behind him and turned.

‘Will,’ she said. ‘The man who disappeared. Magda heard the gossip.’

Willoby? But was he dead?

Twenty-One

Friends and Foes

The chapel of St Leonard’s Hospital was as large as any parish church in the city, adorned with cushions, wall hangings, and altar cloths embroidered by elderly women who lived within the walls as corrodians, as well as their daughters and cousins. A beautiful chapel. Owen knelt for a moment at the lady altar to pray for Tom’s recovery and ask for guidance in resolving the troubles. That is where his friend Dom Erkenwald found him, tapping him on the shoulder and leading him to the entrance of the nave.

‘I heard that Tom Merchet is home. God watched over you.’

‘Forgive me for disturbing you on a Sunday.’

‘I cannot remember a Sunday solely devoted to prayer. We must see to those in our care even on this day. How is your neighbor?’

‘In need of your prayers.’

‘He has them. And I will ask the chaplain to lead prayers for him.’ Erkenwald crossed his muscular arms and looked straight into Owen’s good eye – they were of a height. ‘But you did not seek me out so soon after returning to ask for prayers. How might I help you?’

‘Bess Merchet learned from Queen Bea—’

A choking sound, chased by a chuckle. ‘She recognized me? Of course she did.’

‘I have heard tales of Beatrice’s beauty and wit. I am glad for you. But to the point. The Austin friar.’

‘You believe he is Friar Jerome, the man sought by Lancaster’s men?’

Well informed. ‘Yes. What can you tell me about him?’

‘Little more than what I told Bea. An unpleasant man, and likely a thief – an insult to our order. And of such unexceptional appearance that he will be difficult to distinguish if passing him on the street in a city teeming with churchmen.’

‘Would you know him if you passed him on the street?’

Erkenwald grinned. ‘I believe I would detect his stench. But why are you asking? Aren’t the duke’s men searching for him?’

‘I believe he is involved in Tom’s troubles, and I would like to find him before they do and I lose all chance of learning what I need to know.’

‘Tom’s troubles? I see. When do you need me?’

‘Tomorrow, either early morning or late in the day. Could you manage that?’

‘Come find me when you need me.’

‘You said likely a thief?’

Erkenwald motioned him to follow him to the lady altar. ‘Missing after I sent him away, a pair of silver candlesticks much like this, and an altar cloth that had been folded up after replacing, depicting two friars kneeling at a sickbed, then praying over a coffin, with Christ watching over all. Quite a beautiful cloth.’

‘Difficult to sell.’

‘I would not know. I don’t think like a thief.’

Tupper, Cook, Issy, and Mary moved about their late afternoon chores talking quietly as Bess forced bread and cheese down her throat, chasing it with a fine ale wasted on her. Each bite, each sip brought memories of the early days with Tom, the pleasure he took in her cooking, and she in his brewing, and their delight in expanding the business of the tavern to include rooms for traveling merchants. Such happiness. Yet how often had she spent most of her day complaining instead of pausing to enjoy all the goodness? How had she forgotten her blessings? She was not blind to how much she had – Tom was alive, he was home, and her daughter and Tom’s nephew were going beyond what she had thought they could manage to keep the tavern functioning while she sat with him. She appreciated all that was going well. Yet until Tom woke and knew her, she felt empty. She turned toward a familiar footstep.

‘Owen.’

He slipped onto the bench across from her and took her hand, studying her face. Even in her worry his touch made her heart flutter. Blessed man.

‘He has not awakened?’ he guessed.

‘No. Though the fever has broken. As Dame Magda says, he has been through much and his spirit needs more rest before returning to us. But I fear it is a bad sign.’

‘Magda does not believe in offering false hope. If she were worried, she would say so.’

His kindness humbled her. She owed him the information she had gleaned in his absence, collected by doing precisely what he had asked her not to do. ‘I have a confession,’ she said.

He sat back, folding his arms. ‘You have been sneaking about the city asking questions, have you?’

She blushed like a child caught out. ‘To just sit and wait was unbearable. I followed an idea and learned something that might be of use. Old Bede and his friend Will Fitch were talking about the painters working on the walls of All Saints across the river and it put me in mind of the young painter. So I went there. Asked about a young man. His name is Hal, a journeyman painter, and he fits how Maud the sempster described the young man who often visited the widow Cobb – Helena Brimsby. And she has been there to see him. The men said she pestered him at the church, more than once. But Hal disappeared days ago and they’re not happy about that.’ She stopped, noticing that Owen had not interrupted her. In fact, he was smiling. ‘You’re not angry?’

‘Did the painters share this information freely?’

‘Do you ask if I threatened them? Held them at knifepoint? Of course not. I played the gossip, eager for information.’

‘You did not tell them why you were asking?’

‘No. I left as soon as they became wary.’

Owen grinned. Grinned! ‘Well done, Bess.’ He leaned across the table and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Bless you. This might be important, though I’m not yet sure how. Mary told me what you learned from Queen Bea, and I thank you for that as well.’

‘Oh dear. Now you’ve flustered me.’ In a most distracting way.

‘I beg a favor. I need to talk to Tom. I need to know what he knows about what happened to him. He’s told me a little, but it would help to know more. It would help to know why he gave the ring to Helena. Yes, he may have known her, she might have lived for a time right here, but why the ring, and why now? And was she with child when she fled to York? Who was the father? Was the child this Hal?’

Her stomach clenched. ‘You think Tom was the father?’

‘No. But perhaps he knows who was, and what the child might have to do with what’s happened, why he fled.’

‘He did not flee. He—’ She stopped. Of course Owen needed to know all this. But Tom must heal. ‘You must be patient. He has of yet not been aware enough to say anything. And I will not torment him.’ She saw the look in Owen’s eye, Tom was already tormented. But every moment of peace aided his recovery.

‘I understand. Mary told me of the man Queen Bea said went missing at the time Helena left her. Magda overheard and said his name was Will. If this is who I think it is … Tom has something on his conscience he will tell no one until he has unburdened himself to you. I must tell you what I learned about John Grey so that perhaps Tom’s telling will make more sense to you. Or it may have nothing to do with it.’

‘Tell me.’

Hoods up against an icy rain, Owen and Hempe hastened from the castle across Ouse Bridge toward Micklegate, alert for any sign of followers. From the moment he had passed through Walmgate Bar Owen had a growing sense of all the players involved in the mystery surrounding both Tom and the duke’s men, circling for the final act. Hempe sensed it in the fear in the prisoners’ eyes that belied their cocky belligerence – ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. I demand to see the sheriff’ – and Carl’s spit that earned him a slap from Owen. They had talked a little in the castle yard before heading out into the rain and wind, but only to agree to head to All Saints to see whether the priest knew anything about Hal’s or Helena’s whereabouts – it being a Sunday the painters would not be there. And then the York Tavern, where they could fill each other in on what they’d learned since Owen departed on Tuesday. Not a lot of people out in the storm, but sufficient to keep them alert. They had just stepped off the bridge when Owen detected a shadow rising from the bank as if to follow them.

He moved closer to Hempe. ‘We’re being followed. Too obvious.’

‘A lure?’

‘Might be. I’ll lead them down the alley to Long Alice’s doorway.’ She collected old clothes for rags or repairs, but never on Sundays. ‘Come round the other side.’ In a louder voice, he said, ‘You go ahead. I’ll meet you at the church.’

Hempe nodded, heading down North Street at a quick pace.

Owen ambled toward Micklegate hill as if unaware of the person following him, looking round, nodding to the few hurrying past, then slipped down the narrow alley and pressed himself into Long Alice’s recessed doorway to await his shadow. Hesitant footsteps. A stumble and curse. A man passed and Owen counted to ten, awaiting the man’s fellows, but no one appeared. He sprang out in chase, catching the shadow’s arm before he could step out into an open space, and covered his mouth.

‘I do not intend to harm you if you tell me why you are following me.’ He looked more closely at the man and relaxed a little, though the young man might still be part of Grey’s group. ‘We finally meet, Hal.’

The man held up his hands in surrender. Owen uncovered his mouth.

‘How do you know me?’

‘I’ve known about you for a while, and guessed how you would look.’ Much like Matt. ‘Why are you following me?’

‘I need your help, Captain Archer. My mother’s husband means to kill me.’ The young man was shivering, Owen guessed both from cold and fear.

But he might still prove false. Unless … ‘I’d guessed that young Matt was mistaken for you.’ An easy mistake in a dimly lit room where they had expected to find Hal.

‘It should have been me, yes. I pray for his soul every day. But they know they failed and I am surely hunted.’ Hal moved his weight from foot to foot and hugged himself.

Owen began to believe him. ‘You’ve managed to hide for a week. With your mother’s help?’

‘Her? No.’ Voice rough with despair.

‘I will trade information for help.’

Hal checked behind and around him. ‘I don’t dare talk here.’

‘Take my cloak and come with me to All Saints.’

‘Grey knows I work there. And my mother.’

‘If they come, we will deal with them. Right, Hempe?’

Stepping out of the shadows, Hempe said, ‘I look forward to it.’

‘You will help me?’

‘As I said. For information.’

‘I will tell you everything I know. Or guess.’

Soaked by the time they reached the church, Owen shook out his hat before replacing it to keep his hair from dripping over his eyes. Hal removed the cloak and handed it to Owen. The church was empty but for a priest who rose from prayers as they approached.

‘Hal! God be thanked. I worried about you in this weather.’ The priest was an elderly man with sad eyes that watered as he smiled his relief.

Hal bobbed his head. ‘I found shelter of sorts, Dom Anselm, thank you. He saved my life, Captain.’

The priest looked fondly on Hal. ‘I have done what I could to protect him from his mother.’

Hal gestured toward Owen and Hempe. ‘These are—’

‘Captain Archer and Bailiff Hempe, I know.’ Dom Anselm nodded to each in turn. ‘You will help this young man? Has he shown you his portrait of his mother? A remarkable rendering of a tortured woman.’ He plucked a candle from a side altar and led them to a wall of color and pointed to a figure at eye level.

Though the light of the candles on the altars left gaping shadows on the wall, even with the one brought close, Owen could tell that the effect of the painting – color, dramatic presentation – was extraordinary. He borrowed Dom Anselm’s candle to examine the female figure with arms raised toward a demon. Despite gray hair and wrinkles Helena was still a handsome woman, but it was her expression, especially the frenzy of emotion in her eyes, that chilled Owen.

‘What does she want of the demon?’

‘Healing,’ said Hal. ‘She would sell her soul in exchange for a steady gait, good balance, and no more headaches. One of the reasons my father took me from her.’

‘Jules?’

Hal nodded. ‘He became a lay brother at Rievaulx Abbey, and I was more or less raised by the monks.’

‘Who saw his talent and nurtured it,’ said Dom Anselm with reverence. ‘Such a gift.’ He spread his arms toward the wall painting.

‘Your father is alive?’ Owen asked.

‘No. He passed on a few years ago. That’s when I left.’

‘I am sorry.’

Hal gave him a little smile. ‘I miss him.’

‘You say she is begging the demon for mercy? Not God?’

‘Yes. She believes that with Grey’s help all will be well. But he’s a demon.’

Hence Hal’s fear – that, and Matt’s fate intended for him. ‘We will talk more tonight. I propose that you stay with Dom Anselm until dark, then make your way to Bailiff Hempe’s home.’ He looked to Hempe, who nodded. ‘You will be safer there than with me. He will give you directions.’

‘I will be there.’

Twenty-Two

Pieces of the Puzzle

The York Tavern was quieter than usual even for a Sunday evening, the few lodgers absent.

Tupper greeted Owen and Hempe. ‘You’re welcome to any table.’

But they chose their usual, tucked back in the corner, where they were unlikely to disturb anyone in the sickroom.

Mary served them, again thanking Owen for bringing Tom home. ‘Already I see a difference in my mother.’

When she moved away, Hempe said, ‘Lotta agrees to shelter the lad. She is still furious that Bertram and Denis frightened young Hugh, spying on your house.’

‘My thanks to Lotta. And you.’ As Owen stretched his legs out and shrugged out of his cape he felt a weariness trying to settle. It had been a long day after a night of little sleep.

‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ Hempe warned. ‘We’ve still much to discuss.’

‘True. And then to your home. Brother Michaelo will join us there when he is finished with his ministrations in the minster yard.’ He saw to the poor who huddled near the walls of the minster from dusk to dawn, moving from cookfire to cookfire doing what he could to comfort them.

Hempe nodded. ‘Let’s hope Hal gives him something to write down. Meanwhile, to catch you up.’ He took a long drink, then told Owen about the friar, how he’d once again disappeared. ‘Jasper’s a good lad. If he ever wishes to stand for bailiff, he would be good. Clever.’

‘I doubt he will.’ Though if he thought it would impress Alcock’s daughter he just might. Owen shook off that thought. He wished a quiet life for his son.

‘He’s young yet,’ said Hempe. ‘Now you. Tell me all you learned.’

Owen took a long drink of ale, then gave Hempe as detailed an account of the journey he could manage between interruptions for questions. Which stirred up his own questions. ‘What Hal said about Helena, that she would do anything for healing. I’ve wondered how a man like John Grey inspires loyalty. But a suffering woman … Is she the queen of the hive for whom they all work?’

‘Ah. You might have something there,’ said Hempe. ‘The sooner we find out the better for all of us. Any thoughts about what pushed Tom to do something as foolhardy as to approach Harry Brimsby? He must have known the man was unlikely to oblige. What happened?’

‘I believe it’s what he dreads confessing to Bess. Let’s hope he finds his courage soon.’

‘Before someone else dies.’

Late in the afternoon, Magda handed Bess a cup of ale. ‘For Tom. A taste that may draw him home.’ She withdrew to the window.

The cup warmed her hands, the wood soft as silk, and Bess felt a comfort in it, as in all the Riverwoman touched. Tom’s eyelids twitched as Bess brought it to his lips. A surge of hope at the movement. She steadied her hand. ‘Mary improves by the day, Tom. Smell this. Taste it.’

He squinted at her with his good eye. ‘You are not a dream,’ he whispered.

Her heart skipped. ‘You are home, my love. Home.’ She moved the cup aside to kiss his lips.

He lifted his uninjured hand to her cheek, looking at her in wonder. ‘Bess? How did you …’ he took a breath, ‘… come here?’

‘To our bedchamber? Why, I walked in the door.’ She laughed through her tears.

He looked round. ‘How is this? I am in our bed.’

‘You are. Dear Owen brought you home to me, Tom.’

‘Did I smell ale?’

‘You did.’ She lifted the cup to his lips. ‘Mary’s best yet, I think. She has a way to go to equal yours, but it is a fine brew.’

He sipped. Closed his eyes. A little smile. ‘She is learning.’ The last word trailed off. He slept.

But for a moment her Tom had known her, and this room, and tasted the ale. A little sob brought Magda to her. She gathered Bess in her comforting embrace and held her while she wept for hope.

Despite the welcoming fire in the brazier with a pot of something aromatic warming on a hook above it, a pitcher of watered wine on a small table, and colorful cushions on the corner bed, Hal seemed ready to run away, barely sitting on a stool, his eyes jittering this way and that.

‘Rest easy,’ Owen said. ‘We are glad to shelter you.’

‘And if I know too little to be of use to you?’

‘You cannot tell me what you don’t know. In fact, I pray you don’t embellish.’ Owen sat down on a stool near the table.

Hempe did likewise. ‘Help yourself to a bowl of stew. It will warm you.’

The young man looked hungrily at the pot and had taken a step toward it when someone knocked softly.

Hal backed against the wall.

Owen cracked open the door. ‘My secretary,’ he said to Hal as Michaelo entered.

‘A monk?’

‘Brother Michaelo is my memory keeper,’ Owen explained. ‘And more.’

‘We are the finest scribes,’ Michaelo said, choosing a seat near the door. He proceeded to take out a wax tablet and stylus. ‘Did I miss anything?’

Hal edged back to sit on the bed near Michaelo. ‘I grew up at Rievaulx. My da was a lay brother, and the monks taught me to paint.’

Michaelo smiled. ‘A good childhood?’

‘I didn’t understand why we left my mother behind. Not then. So I thought I missed her. But there was so much beauty, and the monks were good to me.’

A happy accident, Michaelo’s effect on the young man. Owen asked, ‘You imply that you now understand why your father took you away?’

Hal had rested his forearms on his thighs, leaning toward Michaelo. He straightened with a sigh. ‘As I said, she’d trade anything for healing. My father told me she had taken up with criminals, but I didn’t understand that she chose that. She is angry at the world, that she is so cursed and others are whole, that people treat her like a simple-minded cripple. They watch her stumble, bump into things, drop things, and laugh and think they can take advantage of her. She’s learned to use that against them, pretends she needs things, is helpless, and she finds ways to steal from them. Or get others to steal for her. It’s how she’s lived.’

The hive queen. ‘And John Grey?’ Owen asked.

‘He’s worse. He’ll kill for what he wants, and has others kill for him. She says she’s tried to stop him, that she didn’t know he was like that when she took him to husband.’

‘She married him while your father was yet alive?’ asked Michaelo.

‘She and my father were not husband and wife.’

‘Does she know John Grey killed Matt thinking he was you?’ asked Owen.

Hal nodded and looked away. ‘He hated my father. Is disappointed he’s dead. And he doesn’t want me around. He thinks I’m putting ideas in her head.’

‘What does she think of that?’

‘He’s promised her he’s found someone who can heal her, so she wants me to befriend him.’

Michaelo made a sound.

‘I won’t,’ Hal said to Michaelo. ‘God will take my gift away if I sit down with the devil, and I will not risk that.’

‘Even to save your life?’ Michaelo asked softly.

‘Even then.’

Michaelo closed his eyes.

‘Why are your mother and John Grey in York?’ Owen asked.

‘She came to find me while he was away and he found her here. She told me to flee to Rievaulx. But my work is here.’

‘Have you met Friar Jerome?’

‘I’ve seen an Austin friar with Grey. I don’t know what a man of God is doing with him. I’ve managed to stay hidden when they’ve walked about. Mostly early morning or dusk.’

‘Where have you seen them?’ Owen asked, holding up a hand as he thought he heard a knock at the door. He was not expecting anyone else. He heard it again, a soft knock.

‘Who is that?’ Hal’s voice shook.

Hempe rose. ‘I will see to it.’

‘Why not warm yourself with the stew?’ Michaelo suggested. ‘A full belly can be calming.’

Hal rose to smell the pot, then helped himself.

Owen smiled at Michaelo as the sounds of the spoon knocking against the side of the wooden bowl came in regular intervals.

A knock on the inner door, and Hempe poked his head in. ‘Owen.’ He nodded to Michaelo. ‘I will be back in a moment.’

Outside the room, Hempe said, ‘It’s a lay brother from St Mary’s Abbey. He said it’s urgent. Martin Wirthir and Bertram Hawkins are killing each other.’

‘What? How did they find each other?’

Hempe put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘It’s been a long day for you. Go to him. Brother Michaelo and I can talk to Hal. May God protect your friend. When you’re finished there, go home. I will call on you in the morning.’

Would this day never end? With a nod to Hempe and Lotta, Owen headed out.

Magda appeared in the kitchen doorway as Bess listened to Cook’s idea for the next day’s meals. ‘Tom wakes and asks for thee.’

Bess approved Cook’s plan and followed Magda. Before opening the door to the bedchamber, Magda said, ‘Thine husband wishes to unburden himself of secrets. This will be difficult for him. Tom has asked that Magda be there, out of the way, ready to help if needed. Thou canst be assured she will not speak of what she hears. But Magda wishes to know thy preference.’

Bess closed her eyes for a moment and stilled her mind. Here it was, the moment she had dreaded and yearned for. ‘Be with us. I would be grateful for your presence.’

Tom was sitting up supported by several cushions, watching for her.

‘My Bess.’

She perched on the edge of the bed, bending to kiss him, oh so gently, as her heart overflowed. ‘My love.’ She kissed him again, and felt him do his best to kiss her back. ‘What do you need?’

‘Sit. Listen.’ He struggled to sit up more and Magda helped her with cushions, then retreated to a corner where she began to hum as she folded bandages.

Tom clutched Bess’s hand. ‘I must confess. Though I fear.’ He took a breath, peering at her with a look that chilled her. ‘I fear you cannot forgive me.’

She could not imagine what she could not forgive, but her heart raced with dread of what was to come. She put that aside and pressed his hand. ‘I am listening.’

‘I know why they were digging. I know what they found. And I could not … I hoped the ring would … buy her silence. But no. Then John Grey came. I knew he meant … to avenge his brother. I could not … The tavern thrives because of you. You saved me. And you would be ruined … if they … went to the sheriff. Everything you’ve done … to make the York a success … would be lost. It would ruin you.’ He stopped, breathing hard, searching her eyes.

The diggers had found something that would ruin them? How? She did not want to know. But she must. Tom was her life. She could bear anything. ‘It thrives because of us, my love, not just me. Begin at the beginning. Help me understand.’

‘Jules and me, we … He set a fire in the bedchamber. Where Helena and Jules slept. I was out in the stable. Saw the smoke. Heard shouts. Ran back to the tavern. I was drunk.’

‘Drunk? I’ve never seen—’

He held up a hand to still her. ‘And you never will. Because of this.’

‘I am sorry. Go on. You ran back to the tavern …’

‘Fire coming from bedchamber. Saw a burning blanket … on the floor. Jules coughing and … helping Helena. Took time for her to … make her legs work … when she woke. She flapped her arms … at the smoke. Unbalanced herself. And he stood there. Cursing us. Saying … we were damned. Straight to hell … for our sins.’

She’d never heard about a fire in the tavern. He’d never told her. Helena and Jules in one bed. She had guessed that. Tom as well? Was that the sin? Had Beatrice lied to her? He’d known her before, at the manor. ‘Who, Tom? I don’t understand. Who set the fire?’

‘Will. Will Grey. The bastard. As if he … without sin. Killed a man … for ale recipe … worthless.’ His breath came in painful gasps. ‘You know. The parchment. Worthless.’

‘Without your notations, yes.’ Not enough information for even a simple brew. More important, Will was a murderer. She thought of what Owen had told her. ‘Will Grey. John Grey’s brother?’

‘Yes. Demanded I teach him to brew. Refused.’

‘God have mercy.’ But this was so long ago.

‘Step away for a moment.’ Magda touched Bess’s shoulder, holding a cup. ‘Sip this while Magda helps Tom drink.’

‘But I must know,’ Bess cried.

‘Thou wilt hear the rest,’ said Magda. ‘A moment.’

Tom fought with the covers, as if fighting his way out of bed.

Magda caught his good arm and one flailing leg and eased them back. ‘Tom, thou needst honey water.’

He shook his head, a wild light in his eyes. ‘Now. While I have. Courage.’

With a nod, Magda lifted a cup to Tom’s lips. ‘Wet thy mouth, thy throat, then speak softly.’

When Magda withdrew, Bess returned to Tom’s side. Whatever Magda had put in her drink had eased the beating of her heart. ‘I am listening.’

‘Will. Played pious Christian. Lay brother. St Leonard’s. But he was a liar. A thief. Worst of all … lay with women … then beat them … for making him sin.’

Queen Bea allowed that? ‘Did he beat Helena?’

‘No. Not her. He thought her holy. Her affliction a sign. Sacrilege … to lie with her.’

‘But he would burn her? He meant to burn them both?’

Tom closed his eyes. Took several shuddering breaths. ‘I pushed past them all. Tossed the blanket … out window. Stamped on sparks. Will pushed me down. Beating me. He found a burning ember … blew on it to make it flame. Jules dragged him … from the room. Out into yard. I followed. We fought with him. I don’t know … which one of us … pushed him down. Hit his head. Blood … I never could remember. So drunk.’ Tom looked away. ‘Jules was not so drunk. Said he went inside. Made sure fire was out. Came back. Found me asleep. My dagger next to me. Bloody. And Will had been … stabbed in the heart.’

So this was the dark secret. He had killed the man. ‘But he was attacking you. You were defending Helena, the tavern, yourselves.’ Speaking of the woman, she asked, ‘Where was Helena when you woke?’

‘On her knees beside him. Weeping.’

Weeping for the man who meant to burn her alive? ‘That doesn’t …’ Bess stopped herself. This was Tom’s tale. ‘Go on.’

‘We told no one. Buried him … in the yard. Now Fenton’s. Buried my dagger near him. When we sold that strip. Never spoke up.’

His silence gave her pause, but what would she have done in his place? ‘You did not think you would be believed. Who among us would not protect themselves?’ This explained the diggers. But who were they? ‘When Helena threatened to reveal your crime you gave her your ring, hoping she would say nothing?’

‘Yes. Said they dug up Will’s bones. And my dagger. Murder. Secret burial. Evidence of my guilt.’

His dagger. ‘Why would they dig now, so many years later? You saved her life. Doesn’t she understand? Does she know that John Grey is Will’s brother?’

‘Course she does.’ He coughed. ‘He promised her comfort. Money for cure.’ He struggled for breath.

Magda came, helped him drink, held his hand and whispered words of ease.

Tom’s breathing slowed. ‘Bless you, Dame Magda.’

She withdrew.

Bess, too, had sipped at her drink. ‘John Grey promised Helena a cure in exchange for what she knew about his brother’s death?’

‘Don’t know. Made no sense. Married a while. He wants her son … Jules’s and hers … dead. Makes no sense.’

‘And she set them on you? Just because it was your dagger? He’d already fallen and bled.’ Was that why he wanted the son dead, to pay for his father’s sin?

‘She said she came out … and found him dead. Me beside him. My … bloody knife … beside me.’ Tom pressed her hand. ‘Can you forgive me?’

‘Forgive you for what? I love you, Tom. We have built a life together. I stand by you.’

A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘I was so afraid.’ His voice broke.

‘Did she accuse you then? What did Jules say about that?’

‘He could not be sure. We all had blood on us. Even Helena.’

‘Is that why he took her away?’

‘Yes. Hoped he could … make her happy … she would forget. Took all our money. I called him a thief. But he meant to save me.’

Bless Jules. ‘I know a little about your history with her brother Harry. How could you think he would help?’

Tom winced. ‘I could … I could not see any other way. Now with a family … I’d heard. Think differently. But he was … still angry. Cold eyes. I knew I’d …’ He took a deep breath. ‘So foolish. He’d blamed me … when she was with child. Why I thought he … would talk to her … reason with her.’ He closed his eye a moment. ‘Had to try. Could think of … nothing else. I thought … since they’d loved each other. More than … brother and sister. He might want … to save her … and her son … from Grey?’

Bess put her hand on his heart. ‘Calm yourself. You made a bad choice and suffered for it. And now you are home. Safe in your bed.’

‘But the dagger. What if—’

‘No. Owen will see to it.’ Would he? She glanced at Magda. But she was humming and mixing a powder.

Questions crowded Bess’s mind, hers to anguish over. She would not torment Tom. But there was one thing. ‘Do you know who did the digging?’

‘Alice Baker’s sons, she said.’

Dalcops. She would destroy Alice Baker and her wretched curs. ‘Owen needs to know this, Tom. He needs to know what this is all about.’

‘Tell him for me,’ Tom whispered. As she bent to kiss him he pressed her hand. ‘You would kiss me?’

She did so. A long, gentle kiss. Then stroked his cheek. ‘You are my Tom, my heart. Nothing will change that.’

She held him as he wept.

Beneath the old juniper Bess paced, ignoring the rain, piecing together the history Tom had shared, trying to fold it back into her idea of their marriage. She had never guessed he held such guilt. Never sensed it. He’d said he did not care to visit the past – she had thought because of Lily and the child he never even held, his immense grief. No matter, she’d thought. They were happy. And so it would have stayed if Helena Brimsby and John Grey had not decided to bring him to justice. Would it be justice? Will Grey had meant to kill Helena. Or all of them. And why had she blood on her? Why would she touch the corpse of the man who had just tried to kill her? Stop it, Bess, stop it. Just tell Owen all Tom told you.

But her heart. Had he told her when they had met, would she have stayed? Would she have married him? She could not say. She might have missed years of happiness. Because he accepted the guilt.

Why should he? She knew Tom. He would not stab someone already down. And it wasn’t just his decision to say nothing. Jules and Helena were there, must have helped with the burial. At least Jules. God help her, was she telling herself what she wanted to hear? She had never seen Tom drunk. She had no idea what he’d been like. No. He was her Tom. They had shared everything for more than twenty years. He was not a murderer.

Owen would help her see, understand.

Twenty-Three

Repentance, Betrayal

‘They’re outside the hospitium, Captain. With knives,’ the lay brother said as they rushed down Petergate dodging puddles and wandering dogs.

‘How did it start?’

‘The one-handed man asked to speak to Master Denis. The other heard and ran out to confront him.’

One of them might already be dead. God grant him speed.

The brother led Owen to the abbey’s postern gate, which opened directly into the abbey grounds saving time. The lay brother who let them through promised to stay until Owen departed.

‘I pray you are in time,’ he said.

As did Owen. He hastened down the rain-slicked paths past the infirmary and the abbot’s lodgings to the hospitium, the lay brother beginning to fall back. Up ahead someone shouted, and light flickered as if from a swinging lantern. Owen broke into a run.

‘Who goes there?’ he called out.

A wordless cry. He saw them now, two men struggling, a third slumped against the hospitium wall near the entrance, holding his shoulder, a lantern toppled in the grass, illuminating him. Denis. Neither he nor Bertram were dressed for the weather.

‘Right the lantern,’ Owen shouted to the lay brother. He drew out his dagger as he approached the struggling pair and grabbed Bertram by the waist from behind, pulling him away from Martin and tossing him aside. He faced Martin, making certain his dagger was visible.

Martin blinked rapidly and fought for balance.

To Owen’s right, Bertram struggled up and lunged toward Martin. Owen stepped between them. Bertram stabbed at him, slicing his arm, then froze at Owen’s loud curse, looking from him to Martin, who sank down onto his knees, then crumpled on the ground.

‘What is it to be, Hawkins?’ Owen asked as he moved toward him, brandishing his dagger. ‘Is this what the duke wants? For you to injure Prince Richard’s man? To kill the man who warned him of an attack and might have more information of use to the realm?’

‘His Grace will not thank you,’ Denis said, joining Owen. ‘What would you gain?’

‘He wants him dead.’ Bertram’s speech was slurred and he blinked rapidly as if fearing he would drop like Martin.

‘And when I tell him that on a Sunday, in an abbey garden, you attacked a man who had come in peace and stabbed the man his late brother had chosen to protect his family, do you think he will thank you?’ Denis kept his voice soft.

With a curse, Bertram dropped his dagger. Owen grabbed it and went to where Martin lay unmoving.

‘What madness was this, my friend?’

Denis had retrieved the lantern and lowered it to reveal a glistening wound in Martin’s side. ‘God help us, is he dead?’

Owen leaned close, felt Martin’s breath. ‘He lives.’ He looked to the hospitium entrance where a novice hovered. ‘Fetch Brother Henry from the infirmary and tell someone to bring a board to carry a badly injured man.’ When the novice did not move, Owen shouted, ‘Now!’ The young man took off, calling for help as he ran.

‘Just resting,’ Martin muttered. ‘A long day.’

Lit by candles and lamps of fragrant oils and warmed by several braziers, the comfort of St Mary’s infirmary lulled Owen into a state close to sleep while Brother Henry wrapped his injured arm. He startled as someone cleared their throat nearby.

‘Steady, Captain,’ the infirmarian murmured, holding tight to the bandage he was tying on Owen’s upper arm while he bobbed his head at the man standing over them. ‘Abbot William.’

Remembering why he was there, Owen looked round for Martin. He sat up on the edge of a bed, his side bandaged, shirt draped over his shoulders, sipping a drink and watching them. Owen relaxed.

‘Violence in the abbey grounds will not be tolerated,’ the abbot declared. ‘Why didn’t you prevent this, Captain Archer?’

‘Difficult to do so when it began before I arrived, my lord abbot.’ This interminable day had drained all courtesy from him.

Hands on hips, the abbot looked from Owen to Martin. ‘Who did this?’

‘The duke’s man, Bertram Hawkins,’ said Owen.

‘He meant to kill Master Martin?’

‘It would seem so, but only Hawkins can speak to his intention.’ Bertram and Denis had already departed after being examined by the infirmarian’s assistant, who’d bandaged Denis’s shoulder and Bertram’s arm.

It went on like that, Owen answering Abbot William’s questions, but volunteering nothing, saving his strength. When the abbot seemed satisfied, or simply ran out of questions, he pointed to Martin.

‘He cannot stay here.’

‘He has lost much blood,’ said Brother Henry. ‘To move him would risk opening the wound, even tearing it. My duty—’

The abbot motioned him to silence. ‘And I want the duke’s men out of the hospitium in the morning.’ He glanced round, perhaps noticed that no one present had the power to carry out his order, said, ‘Go with God,’ and departed.

Brother Henry shook his head. ‘He will change his mind in a while, remembering his fear of crossing the Duke of Lancaster. You were fortunate, Captain. This is but a flesh wound.’

‘I know. My friend was not so fortunate.’

‘Yes. Master Martin’s rib prevented his death, but the wound is deep and, as I said, he’s lost much blood.’

Martin rose with care, breathing hard as he moved, and settled beside Owen. Sweat shone on his brow.

‘You should rest here a while,’ said Brother Henry. ‘You are no longer young. This will weaken you further.’

‘I seem weak because it has been a long day, the end of a long journey. Might I stay with you, Owen?’ Martin’s voice was weak, breathy.

Weaken you further. Owen began to understand. Could Martin make it to the house? ‘You are of course welcome. But can you walk?’

A wan smile. ‘With your help.’

Owen glanced at Brother Henry, who frowned. ‘I would not advise trying to walk so far.’

‘I pray you,’ said Martin, his hand on Owen’s shoulder, his eyes imploring.

‘Would it not be better to rest here tonight, and I’ll come for you in the morning?’

‘I have things to tell you.’

‘Tell me here.’

‘No.’

‘A lay brother waits at the postern gate to let me out. That means through the abbey grounds, down Petergate to Stonegate, to my home. Can you manage that, Martin?’

‘I will do it.’

Owen could not find it in his heart to refuse his old friend. ‘As you wish.’

Brother Henry rose. ‘I will send someone to make certain you will be met at the gate. If you change your mind before you reach there, you are welcome to return, Master Martin. Though I do not doubt Dame Lucie’s skill. She will have a potion to ease your pain and allow you to rest.’

When he left them, Owen asked, ‘Why did you come to the abbey?’

‘To deliver a message to Denis. For Ambrose. I thought it might be my last chance to ask forgiveness. Tell Ambrose I regret hurting him.’

Well meant, but foolhardy. ‘I will arrange a meeting before Denis leaves.’

‘He seems a reasonable man.’

‘Did you encounter John Grey at the Trotter farm last night?’

Martin smiled. ‘I slowed him down. He will be limping.’

‘You did so much. And alone.’

‘For you. For taking Jasper in when I could not.’

Brother Henry returned. ‘Brother Thomas awaits you at the postern gate. Do I remember correctly that it was you who saved Jasper de Melton after his mother’s death, Master Martin?’

‘My privilege. Yes.’

‘My teacher Brother Wulfstan often spoke of … your complexities. He kept you in his prayers. May God watch over you.’

Their cloaks weighed down by the torrent, the short journey from the abbey postern gate to Davygate challenged the pair, Owen peering with his one eye through the curtain of water and measuring his steps while supporting Martin, who leaned more heavily on him with every step. Where was the night watchman when needed? By the time they stood on Davygate before the house Owen needed to prop Martin against the wall and steady him with one hand while knocking with the other.

Jasper opened the door. ‘Da! Why did you …’ His eyes widened as Owen guided Martin across the threshold and eased him down onto the settle by the fire. He’d removed Martin’s wet cloak before Jasper spoke again. ‘Is it really you, Master Martin?’

‘At this moment I cannot be certain.’

Jasper knelt to remove Martin’s boots while Owen retreated to the kitchen with the wet cloaks.

‘Heavenly Mother, what happened?’ Lucie touched the bloody sleeve pulled down over the bandage on Owen’s upper left arm. ‘My love.’

‘An incident at the abbey. Brother Henry cleaned and bandaged it. It’s a flesh wound, not deep.’ He bent to kiss her.

‘Traveling this morning, working all day and into the evening and now this. You must rest, Owen.’

‘Not yet. We have a guest. I’ve left him by the hall fire with Jasper.’

‘A guest? With Jasper? Is it—’

He kissed her again. ‘Martin. I’ll change my clothes and bring some for him. His wound is deep. He is weak. Brother Henry suggested something for pain and to ease him into a healing sleep. The wear on his body, the life he’s led – I think his weakness is more than the wounds. And why he is here.’

Lucie touched Owen’s scar beneath the patch. ‘We will care for him. I will fetch what Brother Henry suggested from the workshop.’ She went for her cloak. ‘Go now, dry yourself and find clean clothes for Martin. Kate, I think a pallet by the fire in the hall. We can screen him off from draughts and put a brazier near him. I’ll be back to help in a moment. Owen, tell Gwen to keep the children up in their beds. They can meet Martin in the morning.’

Kate nodded to her as she left, grinning as she handed Owen cloths. ‘We have our orders, Captain. Are you and Master Martin hungry?’

He was more tired than hungry, but it would be a while before he could rest his head, and food might help him stay awake. ‘You are an angel.’

As he passed through the hall he smiled to see Martin resting his head on Jasper’s shoulder. At least this had gone right. He met Gwen, Hugh, and Emma creeping down the steps to peek.

‘Da, who is that?’ Hugh asked.

‘The friend who saved your brother Jasper and brought him to us. He will be with us for a while.’

‘Pirate,’ Gwen breathed. ‘He looks unwell. And you, Da, your arm.’

‘There was trouble. I was nicked. Most of this blood is Martin’s. He needs sleep and your mother’s attention. She’s asked that you keep Hugh and Emma up above. You will all meet him tomorrow.’

The little ones’ crestfallen expressions were to be expected. Owen helped Gwen shoo them back up the steps and promised to come in to talk to them after he dried himself and saw to Martin … and ate.

‘We will stay awake until you do,’ said Hugh.

Gwen rolled her eyes.

By the time Owen changed and returned to the hall with clothes for Martin, Kate had already set up screens and a pallet in the far corner, near the fire, and was dragging out a brazier. Owen took over, freeing her to find bedding while he set the brazier near the pallet and added coal, lit it, then helped Martin to a bench behind the screens to strip out of his wet clothing.

‘Better,’ said Martin.

‘Some food and ale, and then you rest.’

‘Mothering me?’

They laughed. Strange that this was by far the most at ease Owen had ever been with Martin.

‘Back to the settle or shall I bring a table here?’ Owen asked.

Martin winced. ‘Here?’

‘Wise choice.’

With the help of Lucie and Kate, Owen and Martin were soon eating bowls of the venison stew and washing them down with ale. Jasper sat with them, though he neither ate nor drank.

For all his weariness, Martin had a good appetite, and sat back with a sigh. ‘I feel better. Thank you.’

‘Lucie has prepared a draught for the pain. More ale?’ Owen asked.

Martin blinked, forcing his eyes wide. ‘I think not.’

After helping Martin drink Lucie’s preparation, Owen guided him to bed.

‘Bless you,’ Martin whispered. ‘I am grateful to be here.’

‘We are glad you are here,’ said Jasper. ‘I’m to bed. We’ll talk when you’re rested.’ With a bounce in his step he headed to his own bed over the shop.

‘Quite a night for him,’ said Lucie as she nudged Owen toward the solar. ‘How you are still standing I cannot guess, my love.’ She took his hand as they climbed.

‘Not for long. But I promised the little ones—’

A soft laugh. ‘Do you hear them stirring? Come, my love. Bed.’

As Owen began to undress, Lucie gently moved his hands aside and pulled up his shirt, reached down to remove his stockings, and pushed him down onto the bed to finish stripping him. Then she stepped out of her dress and joined him, kissing him in all the right places.

After the lodgers were abed and Mary and Tupper completing the chores, Bess donned a cloak and hood and walked to Lucie and Owen’s house. Through the garden window she saw the couple and Jasper sitting with a white-haired man who looked vaguely familiar, and noticed Owen’s head drooping with exhaustion. Her news would wait.

Twenty-Four

Sinners All

Propped up on his pallet, an empty cup sitting on a stool to his left, Martin was staring up at the ceiling when Owen checked on him in the morning. The daylight accentuated a gauntness in his face, and lack of color except for a feverish blush to his cheeks. His heart?

‘I hope you slept well. Is there anything you need?’ Owen asked.

Not lifting his head from the cushions, Martin smiled. ‘I am content, my friend. Your gentle wife has tended me, and sweet Kate. I’m to send you straight to the kitchen where Merchet’s wife awaits you.’

Owen promised to return to talk, then continued to the kitchen, worried that Bess had come to say Tom had taken a turn in the night. But she was on the settle with Emma, both giggling as they tickled each other. Nothing dire, then. Yet he’d no sooner poured himself a small bowl of ale and joined them on the settle than Lucie called to the children – ‘Now you can meet our guest!’ – and disappeared into the hall, the three excitedly following her.

‘She is the happiest child,’ said Bess, moving closer to Owen. ‘Warms my heart, and I would love nothing more than to spend all the morning with her. But I must talk to you and return to my Tom.’

‘He had a good night?’

‘For a man who has suffered so, yes.’ She averted her eyes for a moment. ‘Dame Magda does not seem worried.’

‘Nor am I. He will heal, Bess.’ He’d no idea when he had decided that, but he was confident. ‘Though it will take time.’

‘So Magda says as well, and I am trying to believe it. He is improving. He was talking last night, and confided much to me. Difficult things. That’s why I’ve come so early. He asked me to tell you all of it in the hope that it might help you and your men put an end to all this.’

Owen had not expected Tom to push past his fear of her rejection so soon. But it was good news. He listened to the tale, softly repeating names, nothing more, hungry for all of it.

She was in tears by the end. ‘He feared I could not forgive him. But what is there to forgive?’

Silence about a death, for one. He might have saved much grief for himself by alerting the authorities of Will Grey’s death and what led to it. But then Tom had been new to the city and might have fallen victim to a bailiff eager to blame him and be done with it. Who would come forward to defend a stranger? More recently, had he confided all this to Owen when Helena appeared in York, they might have been prepared.

And yet what wouldn’t he forgive of Lucie?

‘He’d confided in me how frightened he was,’ he said, ‘though not what he needed to confess. I assured him you would not condemn him, that your love was strong.’

Bess touched his cheek, then gave him a little peck. ‘I am beholden to you.’

‘Not beholden. We are family, Bess. I want to bring both of you some peace.’

As the sun rose over the garden, a sense of spring warmth in the air, Owen walked the paths. Much of Tom’s story was no surprise, but Will setting fire to the bedchamber and endangering Helena, that made no sense to him. Tom’s refusal to teach him to brew could not justify such violence. It was an act of madness.

‘Owen?’ Brother Michaelo stood with arms crossed, hands tucked into the opposite sleeves, frowning in concern. ‘Brother Henry told me you were injured.’

‘Nothing of consequence. Martin suffered worse. How did you hear of it?’

‘It is difficult to avoid it this morning. But it was unclear whether you were here or at the infirmary, so I went there first. I learned that Bertram and Denis have left the abbey and seek lodgings at Micklegate Priory.’

‘Thank you. I will call on them later. Come inside now and tell me what you learned from Hal.’

Michaelo’s smile faded. ‘George Hempe has not already reported?’

‘No.’ Curious. He had seemed so eager to connect in the morning. Owen fought off the urge to rush over to Petergate to check on the bailiff. One matter at a time, that was the way on such a day.

In the hall, the children clustered at Martin’s bedside. Hugh sat quietly staring while the girls asked about managing with only one hand and what treats he would like.

‘Ma gives us best treats when we’re sick,’ Emma said excitedly.

‘I am guessing you like candied angelica,’ said Martin, his eyes merry. Owen was glad to see it.

‘I do!’ said Emma. ‘How did you know?’

‘I do not divulge my sources,’ Martin said with a laugh.

‘Are you really a pirate?’ Hugh blurted out.

‘I have been many things, Master Hugh, and a pirate is perhaps the best of them.’

Hugh grinned. ‘Is it fun?’

‘More fun in the telling than in the moment when battling enemies and the sea.’ Martin wiped his brow as if expressing the danger, but Owen could tell he was tiring.

Kate arrived just in time to shoo the children out to the kitchen. ‘More ale? Bread and cheese?’ she asked the three men.

‘I would be grateful,’ said Martin.

When she left, Martin held out his hand to the monk. ‘It is good to see you again, Brother Michaelo. You have not aged a day, and I … well, I am as you see.’ His eyelids drooped. He had exerted all his energy to enchant the children.

‘Should we let you rest?’ Owen asked.

‘Perhaps. But if you would speak so that I might hear?’

Michaelo sat beside him and expressed his concern.

Martin waved that away. ‘I have courted danger to feel alive, and it has taken its toll. Too old for that now.’

‘I will pray for you.’

Owen motioned Michaelo to the seats in front of the hearth. When Kate returned with a tray of food and ale she set it by them, but poured a bowl of ale for Martin and handed it to him. He whispered a thank you.

Michaelo sipped while Owen helped himself to bread and cheese, the two sharing a quiet moment, a breath of calm in what promised to be a tiring day.

‘He suffers from more than his fresh injury?’ Michaelo asked quietly.

‘I would say yes. Perhaps merely age. I’ve no idea how old he is.’

‘How is Jasper?’

‘Elated, and worried. He proposes Martin stay over the shop where he will be near most of the time. And Lucie.’

‘It is good they’re together.’

Owen agreed. ‘And Hal? Did he tell you anything of substance?’

‘He gave us names of people he saw in his mother’s lodging, though there were more he did not know. George Hempe plans to visit the ones he named in case they have seen her, or perhaps are hiding her.’

‘No idea which one she’d favor? Or whether she’s even here?’

‘No. He’s not seen her since before we departed for Beverley, which was a relief to him at first, but now he is worried. His greatest wish is to find her and coax her into seeing Magda Digby. He believes Magda would be honest about whether there is a cure for his mother’s clumsiness. He thinks John Grey brought Friar Jerome to York because he claimed to be able to cure her.’

‘He’s a healer?’

‘Hal isn’t certain, and even this is a guess. You do recall why this friar is sought, doing the king’s and the duke’s horoscopes. Perhaps he heals through alchemy.’

‘Or pretends to.’

Michaelo nodded. ‘Hal suspects the man is a greedy fraud.’

‘So the stolen articles are to be used to pay him?’

‘Hal and Hempe thought that likely. Dame Lotta as well. She has a low opinion of alchemists.’

As did Owen. And one was usually wise to heed Lotta Hempe’s opinions. Before her marriage to George, she had built a thriving business in her widowhood that she ascribed to being able to judge a person’s honesty and ability with one meeting. But she had not met the friar.

‘The more we know, the more likely we’ll find the Greys and the friar,’ said Owen.

‘I pray we do before they cause more suffering,’ said Michaelo.

Owen told him all he had learned from Bess.

‘So Helena might be desperate to hide her own guilt,’ said Michaelo.

‘It’s possible.’

‘I think it is clear that is the case.’ Michaelo glanced back at Martin. ‘He sleeps.’

‘May he strengthen in our care.’ Owen stared into the fire, trying to set aside his worry for his friend and order the day. The St Leonard’s connection with Will Grey intrigued him. If he had served as a lay brother at the hospital someone might remember him. ‘I am meeting Dom Erkenwald this morning, and I now have some additional questions for him. Would you care to accompany us?’

‘What of the prisoners in the castle?’

‘The more I know when I talk to them, the more likely I might convince one to talk.’

Michaelo nodded. ‘And George Hempe?’

His absence bothered Owen. ‘We begin at his house, then St Leonard’s.’

Hempe answered their knock with a nod, stepping aside to allow them to enter. He looked troubled.

‘Is it Hal?’ Owen asked.

‘No. Ned could not sleep, so he relieved the watch at Helena’s old lodging on Coney Street and was stabbed for his pains, someone running from the house. The night watchmen helped him home.’ Ned lodged with the Hempes.

‘God help him.’ Owen had ordered him to get some sleep. But Ned was impulsive.

He greeted them from a pallet by the fire. A bandage was just visible at the top of the covers.

Owen crouched beside him. ‘Where? Side? Gut?’

‘Side.’ Ned pulled down the covers and indicated a place below the ribs. ‘I was too slow to step aside. But it might have been worse.’

Ned was usually quick on his feet, alert.

‘Did you get a look at your attacker?’

‘A man. Bigger than me, but so fast I know nothing more. I think he was limping when he left me.’

John Grey? ‘A bad night for all of us,’ said Owen. ‘But Tom told Bess all he knows, which may help us.’ Settling on a stool near Ned, Owen repeated Tom’s account of the trouble that was likely at the bottom of the strife. ‘I’m meeting Erkenwald this morning. If he knows nothing of Will Grey having served as a lay brother at the hospital we might talk to Queen Bea.’

Michaelo coughed, his face far darker than the gentle cough would make it. ‘Perhaps I should wait here and accompany Hempe to the castle.’

‘You’re not curious about the woman considered most beautiful among the bawds serving the Bedern?’ Hempe teased.

Owen laughed. ‘We will meet you at the castle.’

Erkenwald was giving directions to two men carrying garden tools to the plot near the homes of the corrodians, set in between the hospital building and the chapel where it might enjoy the most sun, enlarged and tended in loving memory of Matilda de Warrene, who had planted the first seeds, growing flowers for the patients to cheer their troubled days.

The friar pointed. ‘Start turning the soil there.’

One of the men jammed the shovel into the still-hard ground and tried to lift it, almost collapsing with the effort. Another grabbed the shovel and yanked up, spewing soil over his clothes and the ground outside the bed.

‘Turning, not tossing.’ Erkenwald sighed as Owen joined him. ‘I prefer the lay sisters working there, a gentler touch, but this requires more strength.’

‘Speaking of lay brothers,’ said Owen, ‘do you recall a man named Will Grey serving here? It would be twenty years ago. He frequented Queen Bea’s brothel.’

Erkenwald glanced round nervously, breathed easier when he saw it unlikely they would be overheard. ‘They all sneak off to the women. Will Grey.’ He shook his head. ‘Before my time here, but I don’t recall any tales about a man of that name, neither from my fellows – we do gossip – or Beatrice. Grey. Like John Grey?’

‘His brother. Will died twenty years ago. Forgive me for mentioning her here. Might we visit her as we begin our search?’

‘So early? She will be abed.’

‘Or not yet there.’

Erkenwald frowned up at the sky. ‘More than likely already abed. But if you must, perhaps I might meet you afterward?’ A laugh. ‘I am a coward.’

‘As am I. I need your protection.’

‘Oh. Yes, I’ve noticed how she purrs at the thought of you. Best that I’m there.’

Magda’s deep-throated laughter, followed by Tom’s, lifted Bess’s spirits.

‘Am I in time for some jollity?’ she asked as she approached the bed.

‘Thy husband was telling the tale of how thou didst first steal his heart and then his tavern.’ Magda gently touched Tom’s cheek, then rose to give Bess the chair.

‘Steal?’ Bess pretended insult, peering down at Tom. ‘Did you use that word?’

‘Sure to have said “won”.’ A lopsided smile.

Bess’s heart soared to see that smile.

‘Art thou able to sit with him for a while? Magda would like to spend some time with Martin Wirthir, an old friend.’

‘Tom and I will be fine.’ Bess stroked his cheek. More than fine.

The queen of the Bedern took her time appearing in the parlor, Edwin making it clear that she was allowing an exception for them – no one else would be received at such an unreasonable hour. Owen spent the time examining the objects in the room, a marble vase, a silver and enamel bowl, a silver and agate rosary lying at the foot of a statue of the Blessed Virgin, an embroidered cloth on a table reminiscent of an altar cloth, though the figures were women in colorful, bejeweled gowns. He was fingering another embroidered cloth partially visible beneath a number of valuable items on a side table when Bea entered the room, her magnificent hair loose over her shoulders and down her back. Settling onto a cushioned chair she rearranged the silk overdress that had opened as she sat down, revealing a gauzy gown that left nothing to the imagination.

‘I have long wished to entertain you in my home, Owen Archer,’ she said. Purred. Her delivery truly catlike.

‘You have a beautiful home.’

‘Alas, considering the hour, you are not here for pleasure.’

Erkenwald shifted uneasily.

‘You are right, I come with a purpose other than pleasant conversation. I am searching for a group of murderers and thieves. Bess Merchet mentioned a man whose name you could not recall who’d made trouble in your establishment over Helena Brimsby. Have you remembered his name? Was he a lay brother at St Leonard’s? Perhaps Will?’

A flicker of something as she glanced at Erkenwald. ‘You could not help him?’

‘Before my time.’

‘Will. That might be right. I doubt I knew his family name, patrons of lesser means rarely give them. The wealthy believe their status will afford them favors. As for his being a lay brother at St Leonard’s …’ A melodic laugh as she touched her chest with her long, tapered fingers. ‘You must know that in his mind he held many different posts, some slightly more believable than others. But in truth he was merely a thief who loved to gambol on about nonsense.’

‘Never connected to the hospital,’ said Erkenwald, ‘that is good news.’

If she recalled this much, she remembered his name. ‘Did he ever mention a brother, John?’ Owen asked.

A slow smile, warm, lovely. ‘My dear Owen, he did threaten to have his brother, a powerfully strong man, tear one of my men apart – himself quite strong, which is why I employed him, to rid me of those who grew rowdy with drink. But I never met this strongman, nor heard his name.’

Owen must have smiled at the almost certain connection, for she touched his knee and purred, ‘Now that is a smile that would melt the iciest heart. I am honored to be the source of joy for you. Dame Lucie is a most fortunate woman.’

They walked the Bedern and the rest of the minster liberty in companionable silence, Owen mulling over how to use all he now knew about John and Helena Grey, and last night’s attack on Ned. Had Grey or one of his men discovered the cache gone? Was that important? What Erkenwald was thinking he could not guess, but the man’s discomfort while in Beatrice’s presence had been apparent.

‘Now to the castle,’ Owen said as they passed through the minster gate. ‘Perhaps we will encounter Jerome on the way.’

‘Why the castle?’

‘I hope to catch the friar who is seeing to the prisoners’ injuries, ask him if an Austin is lodging with the Franciscans.’ He should have thought of it the day before, but his head was clearer after a night’s sleep.

Erkenwald nodded, clearly still distracted.

‘Forgive me for dragging you there,’ said Owen.

‘What? No. No, it was …’ Erkenwald looked agitated. ‘Enlightening in a disturbing way. I did not realize …’ He shook his head. ‘God help me, I have put myself in harm’s way with so little thought to my soul.’

‘Beatrice?’

‘I was overcome with jealousy by how she looked at you. And when she touched you …’ He blew out a breath as if to blow away the feelings. ‘This madness must end now.’

‘Distract yourself with our purpose, my friend.’

A nod. ‘Good advice. I pray I am able to do so.’

Twenty-Five

Chases

Friar Jerome eluded Owen and Erkenwald, and neither were smiling when they met Hempe and Michaelo at the castle. The pair awaited them under a torchlit doorway at the head of the winding stairway to the cells. They had been talking and shaking their heads in the way people do when disturbed by some event.

‘Is the friar here?’ Owen asked. ‘The one seeing to the prisoners.’

‘He is with Bolt at present,’ said Hempe. ‘He might be with him a while. The man tried to cut his own throat last night with the handle of a spoon he’d sharpened on the stones. All he managed was to rip his skin and bleed all night. Soaked through his pallet. You need to see the friar?’

‘I have a question for him, but—’ Owen noticed a hooded figure hesitate on the steps, then spin round and make a swift, silent retreat.

‘Jerome,’ Owen shouted as he pushed past Michaelo and Hempe and headed down.

As the others clattered behind him Owen motioned them out into the intervening floors while he continued down, down, sensing rather than hearing the man ahead. A slap against the stones, a muttered curse. The friar had doubtless slipped on the slimy steps, unfamiliar with the dampness that made the cells beneath the riverbank hell on earth. A cold hell. A cry followed by a thud. Owen slowed down, picking his way and straining to hear. There it was, a grunt followed by a moan that curled up into a whimper. He felt for a leg or head on the steps, and there it was, a sandaled foot.

‘You do not dare attack me.’ A threat made pathetic by the crack in the voice, the panicked breathing.

Owen reached down, grasped the man’s legs, and tightened his grip.

A yelp, then a string of nonsense – some of it Latin but much just noise, then, ‘I curse thee!’ A cough.

‘Perhaps you have no power upside down.’ Owen slowly pushed the man forward.

‘Wait! Stop! You will kill me.’

‘You must be near the next landing.’ Owen let go the legs. ‘Try to turn onto your back.’

Jerome flailed, then managed to turn over.

‘Now tuck your head down into your chest while I push. Relax and you’ll slide to the landing.’ Which was wide, being the end of the stairway. ‘Ready?’

‘If I die …’

‘It will be because you tensed up,’ said Owen. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

He pushed the man, gently, slowly, listening to the grunts and curses, and then they were down, in the light of a torch. The friar tried to scramble to his feet, but he cried out and clutched his side.

‘Easy now.’ Owen approached the friar as he would an injured animal. He held up a hand to halt a guard approaching, lantern in hand. ‘I will help you sit up, but if you hit or kick, I cannot promise what I will do. Do you understand?’

Pausing by the window overlooking the garden, Jasper surveyed the room above the workshop, much larger since they’d expanded the room below, and imagined Martin Wirthir convalescing in here, the long conversations at the end of the day. He turned to look out the window and noticed a man in the tavern yard. He leaned out for a better look. The man crept toward the tavern stable where Tupper slept and the occasional horse boarded. No horses at present, and Tupper would be at work in the tavern. Jasper fetched a dagger and a short cloak from his room and headed down the steps, calling out to his mother in the shop that he would be away for a little while. Out the door, he went straight to the tavern and pulled Tupper out into the yard.

‘I saw a man sneaking into the stables just now. Is there a lodger—’

‘No horse at present, just the donkey.’ Tupper glanced back at the tavern room, motioned to someone that he was going out. ‘Come on.’

Jasper noticed Alfred entering the yard from the cemetery lane but ignored him.

Halfway between the tavern and the stables Alfred caught up to them. ‘I was hoping to find the captain. What’s wrong?’

‘Da’s not here.’ Jasper pointed to the stables as the donkey brayed. ‘Intruder.’

‘Right. Is there more than one door?’

Tupper shook his head. ‘I’ll go in, act surprised, fuss about a stranger in my home frightening my donkey, and you two wait either side of the door.’

‘Do you have a weapon?’ Alfred asked.

Tupper grinned. ‘Just inside.’

‘I understand,’ Jerome said.

In the torchlight Owen saw that the friar had a bloody nose. He had fallen face first. ‘Give me your hand.’ He glanced at the anxious guard. ‘If he tries to pull me, you are free to jump in,’ he told him.

A cold, wet hand, slippery with blood, clutched onto Owen’s.

‘Won’t hold. Too wet. I am coming close to shift you. This guard is eager to attack.’

‘I am a man of God. It is sacrilege to touch me.’

‘I think the Duke of Lancaster would challenge that.’ Owen stepped behind the friar, grabbed beneath his shoulders, and pulled him upright and toward the wall, stepped away. ‘Broken nose. What else?’

‘I will speak only to a man of the Church.’

‘That would be me.’ Brother Michaelo spoke from the steps. ‘Or Dom Erkenwald.’ He moved aside to allow the Austin friar to step through.

Erkenwald crouched down to examine the man on the ground. ‘Yes, this is him. Stole from the hospital when I turned him away. Petty act. The duke’s men will be glad to hear the captain is holding you for them.’

‘I am a man of God.’

‘Then let us kneel together and pray for the salvation of your soul.’

‘First I’d like to know your business in the castle prison,’ said Owen.

‘Visiting the prisoners to pray with them.’

‘You have the sheriff’s permission?’

The friar snarled. ‘I am a man of God.’

‘So you say, but you are not above the law.’

As Tupper entered the stable the donkey brayed and Jasper smelled smoke.

‘Fire!’ Jasper shouted.

Alfred motioned him to one side of the stable door. ‘We’ll jump on him when he rushes out.’

‘We’re coming!’ Cook and Bess were rushing up with buckets of water.

‘No, Bess, go back to the tavern. Someone wants you out of there.’ Jasper waved back the customers tumbling out of the tavern. ‘Protect Tom Merchet!’ he shouted.

Cook had already disappeared into the barn.

Jasper took the bucket from Bess. ‘Go!’ He ran into the stable.

Someone, a man, screamed in pain, and the donkey’s braying rose in pitch. Blinking in the smokey dimness, Jasper followed the crackle of flames and almost collided with Cook, who tossed water on a small fire in the hay at the edge of a stall, then pulled open the door and led the donkey out while Jasper poured more water on the steaming mess.

‘Tupper?’ Jasper called.

‘I have him, the bastard.’

When Jasper saw no more lit embers he called out to Tupper again and followed his voice to a bloody sight. Tupper had a man’s thigh and hand pinned to the floor of the stables with a pitchfork. It was one of Alice Baker’s sons.

‘His mother will make noise about this,’ Jasper said. When Alice Baker’s family had trouble she blamed everyone but them – often Jasper’s mother, who refused to feed her taste for sleeping and pain medicines.

‘Don’t worry. He’ll live to make his confession,’ said Tupper. ‘And my guess is that whoever paid him to do this will betray him.’

Perhaps. For the moment, Tupper had done the job. Jasper clapped him on the back.

Outside, shouts and the sound of pounding feet.

‘Stay with him,’ Jasper said as he rushed out.

Alfred was chasing after a man running out of the yard. Seeing him turn in the lane toward Coney Street, Jasper spun round and ran through the gardens behind the tavern, taking a right after the third toward the street. He was just in time to see someone slip down an alleyway toward the river and he followed into the narrow darkness and out onto the riverbank. Nothing. Where the bloody hell? With a curse, he climbed back to the street where Alfred stood, hands on hips, catching his breath.

‘Any luck?’

Jasper shook his head, but had a thought. The man had ducked down the alley to one side of Helena Grey’s old lodging. Softly, he asked, ‘What do you know about the family in the house behind Helena’s lodgings? They helped with Jed when he fell, but what do you know about them?’

Alfred was looking at him with hope. ‘Nothing. I’ve seen them on the street, but …’ He nodded. ‘Good thinking. I’ll tell Hempe.’

Back in the tavern, Mary described how a man had walked into the tavern room and with nary a nod to her moved straight to the door of Bess and Tom’s bedchamber. That’s when she called out and the man took off, Bess trying to trip him as she reached the door. He’d stumbled, but caught his balance and ran, Alfred rushing after him.

Bess looked disappointed to see them empty-handed. ‘I’ve seen the other one in the stables and given him a good kick. You’ll be taking him to the castle?’

‘Yes. Might we use your donkey cart?’ asked Jasper. ‘I don’t think the man can walk on his own.’

Bess hissed, but agreed.

For the moment, Friar Jerome was the king’s guest at the castle, in a slightly more comfortable cell than the ones below the river, with a tiny, barred opening to fresh air high up and a pallet raised up from the floor and a blanket, though by the looks of it Owen doubted it had ever been washed. The friar made his complaint to Dom Erkenwald and Brother Michaelo, who suggested he ask God why this was happening to him. Owen and Hempe advised him to save his breath for the sheriff.

When Erkenwald took his leave of them, having served his purpose, the three proceeded on to the prisoners’ cells on the lower levels. Their first stop was at Bolt’s cell. He sat on a stool, head bent, forearms on thighs, glancing up as they entered, a thick bandage around his neck.

‘Yesterday you seemed certain you would be rescued. Last night you tried to take your life. What robbed you of hope?’ Owen asked.

Bolt glanced at him. ‘No justice here.’ His voice was like the scratch of a branch on a piece of metal.

‘If you would tell us all you know about the beatings of Harry Brimsby and Tom Merchet, and who sent you after us, you would find some mercy,’ said Owen.

‘Liar.’

When even Michaelo’s offer to sit with him and pray was met with silence, they moved on.

Carl Brimsby sat upright and smirking as they entered his cell, but his eyes betrayed him, skittery, fearful.

‘You’ll be wondering what happened in your friend’s cell last night. He cut his throat,’ said Owen. ‘Lost much blood.’

‘Liar. The guard did it.’

Owen offered him the same as Bolt, trading information for mercy, but Carl spit on him. Owen strode over and grabbed the chained man by the head, wiped the spit over his face, then slammed his head against the wall.

‘I did that,’ Owen growled, and walked out.

Hempe and Michaelo followed him up and out into the fresh air and warm sunlight. He lifted his head to the light and let it wash away the darkness that had crept into his heart down below.

‘Bolt should be watched,’ he said.

‘I have no pity for him,’ said Hempe.

‘Even so.’

‘Shall I go back? Sit with him for a while?’ asked Brother Michaelo.

Although the thought of returning to the cell sent a shaft of ice to his gut, Owen saw only compassion in Michaelo’s eyes.

‘You might just save his life.’

‘To what purpose?’ Hempe asked.

Michaelo rested a hand on Hempe’s shoulder. ‘I understand your anger. But who knows how this experience might change him, what he might become. I do not ask you to join me. You and the captain have work to do.’ The monk bowed to both of them and turned back to the prison.

‘Time to move on,’ said Owen.

‘Good,’ said Hempe. ‘I need to move, breathe.’

Out in the courtyard Alfred was directing a pair of guards who were lifting an injured man out of a cart. One of Alice Baker’s lawless brood, and the Merchet’s donkey cart, if Owen wasn’t mistaken. Bess had caught them back at the digging? It would be like the hapless pair to think they might yet find treasure.

‘Trouble at the tavern?’

Alfred nodded. ‘Jasper and Tupper were quick to see to it. All is well, though some straw burnt and blood spilt. The injuries on that Baker fool are Tupper’s work, but it was Jasper who noticed him sneaking into the stables and alerted the tavern staff.’

Well done, son. ‘Anyone else injured?’

‘No.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Lure everyone out of the tavern while his companion got to Tom is what we think. That one ran.’ Alfred grinned. ‘Jasper is shaping up to follow in your footsteps, Captain.’ He told him about the chase, and Jasper’s question about the people living in the house where Jed had fallen through the roof.

Considering it, Owen saw his son’s point. ‘I’ll talk to them. But not right away. Set a pair of men to watch it, Alfred, day and night.’

‘A pair each?’

‘Ned was injured last night.’

‘The bastards,’ Hempe growled. He thought of Ned like a son.

‘Right,’ said Alfred, ‘I heard. A pair it is.’

‘You witnessed all this?’ Owen asked.

‘Most. I’d come to find you,’ said Alfred. ‘Winifrith was visiting a sick friend and thinks she saw Helena Grey near All Saints Church this morning.’

‘I’m heading there next.’ Owen planned to find a place from which to set a watch on the church, expecting Helena to search for her son. ‘Did you recognize the one you chased?’

‘Had a hat pulled low round his face. Not John Grey. Smaller, no limp. Might have been another Baker, now I think of it.’

‘Good work.’

The guards supported the injured man they’d lifted from the cart. ‘Where should we put this one?’ one of them asked Hempe.

Owen approached the man. ‘Adam Baker, is that right? Second oldest?’

Adam attempted a sneer, but he winced and groaned as one of the guards adjusted his hold.

‘Who hired you? Who was your companion?’

‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ he said in a tight voice.

‘Put him on the level with the others,’ said Hempe, getting in the man’s face to say, ‘where the rats are hungry.’

As they walked off, Owen glanced over at Hempe, wondering whether he was going to be a problem. The trouble with a long, complex puzzle was that frustration riled those who in normal circumstances were patient, and the smallest move taken personally ignited their fury. Owen had seen Hempe in this mood long ago, their first encounter. He would watch him.

And himself. He might have badly injured Carl, and to what end? He needed him to talk.

But right now he wanted to know who inspired such fear in Adam Baker. ‘Change of plan. We need to talk to the Bakers and the family in the house behind Helena’s lodgings. Considering how Alice Baker has treated Lucie—’

‘I will talk to them, you talk to the others,’ said Hempe. ‘We’ll meet at the tavern.’

Twenty-Six

Bakers and Thieves

Bess sensed calm flowing through her as she and Magda cleaned Tom’s wounds and applied salves and fresh bandages, and she found herself smiling. Perhaps it was seeing with her own eyes how the swelling was easing, the bruises fading, and the wounds were clean, the skin knitting together. Tom, too, looked peaceful, clearly comforted by Magda’s warm, gentle hands and her encouraging words.

After the intrusion Bess had been in a state, cursing the Baker family, her mind beset with images of the stable burning, Tom being dragged from his bed, all the horrible things that might have been. Bless Jasper. But what if he had not glanced out the window?

Magda had drawn her to a bench by the window and urged her to voice all that was in her mind. As the words tumbled one over the other, Bess let the tears come. By the time she ran out of words she was sobbing on Magda’s shoulder.

Strong hands gently lifted her away, the blue eyes seeking hers, smiling, calming. ‘Thou hast purged more than the fears of the afternoon. Thy Maggie, her felt cap, the sorrow that lingers. Magda remembers her golden curls, with a touch of copper as she grew.’

‘You remember our Maggie?’ The healer’s smile left no doubt. How Bess had misjudged her.

‘Bess?’

She snapped out of the memory and bent down to Tom, taking his hand. ‘I am here.’

‘There was trouble? One of the Bakers?’

He might be injured, but he was alert. ‘Adam Baker. He’s been taken to the castle jail in our donkey cart. Tupper knows how to use a pitchfork. Pinned Adam’s thigh to the ground. He’s a good lad.’ She laughed at Tom’s surprise.

‘The fire?’

‘A bit of hay, no more. Another tried to get to you, but Alfred chased him away.’ She stroked his cheek, kissed it, grateful that he could see past his ordeal and worry about the tavern and stable. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, ‘You don’t have a tale to tell about the Bakers other than the digging, do you?’

‘Happens I do.’ He smiled his crooked smile. ‘There is a reason the guild turned Baker away, dust and wormy flour in the bread. Alice led him by the nose, a greedy woman. She had eyes for Will Grey. I thought she might have told him enough lies about Helena to make him strike. After he was gone, she tried for Nicholas Wilton. Can you imagine?’ Tom’s belly laugh dissolved into a cough, but his eyes were merry. ‘Poor Nicholas could not move quick enough when she appeared.’

‘Is that why she’s been so mean to Lucie?’

‘I would say. As if Lucie stole him from her.’

‘And all the while she was wed to that poor man?’

‘If they ever wed. The babies just kept coming.’ Tom grinned.

She laughed, her heart light. Her Tom was back.

But still weak. Seeing how he fought to keep his eyes open, she kissed him and offered a calming tisane. After a few sips he sighed and relaxed against the pillows.

With Magda at Tom’s bedside, Bess made her way to Maud the sempster’s lodgings to ask whether she had noticed the Baker sons among the men calling on Helena.

‘At least you are no longer pretending that you have come merely to talk about my work.’ Maud pursed her lips, but her eyes were friendly. ‘The Baker boys. I’m sure they consider themselves men, but they’ve not a man’s mind or courage to share among them. Yes, I saw Adam and John, and even Alice herself, the nasty shrew. Shouting when she was there, and once the crash of crockery tossed and shattered.’

‘When was that?’

Maud bent to her work for a moment, embroidering a vine pattern on the hem of a gown. ‘I cannot be certain, but it was very near the morning you found young Matt’s body up there. Might have been the day before, early in the afternoon. I had just returned from a customer’s home with a basket of work and I saw Alice Baker charging up the steps as if heading for battle. Her poor husband. They say he is ill, close to death, and she’s out and about with those worthless sons. Thieves they are, she and the sons. Her girls are left to walk the streets. Mark me, they will wind up whores.’ When Maud opened up she did not stint.

‘Alice Baker has been a nightmare to Dame Lucie.’

‘Well, the woman thought the apothecary would be hers, that Nicholas Wilton would wed her when she was conveniently widowed. Why do you think she wanted all those physicks for pain and sleep? She meant to murder her inconvenient husband.’

Bess had heard enough. But she widened her eyes and gasped to stay in the woman’s good graces – she might have more questions – and expressed her regret that she must return to Tom’s bedside.

‘Of course you must. Tell him that I pray for him as I work.’

Once out the door Bess paused to catch her breath and sort through Maud’s chatter for what was helpful.

‘Bess?’ Owen stood behind her on Coney Street.

‘Owen!’ This was not the place to tell him about the Bakers, with the neighbors here all listening, wary of more trouble. But she must tell him. Slipping a hand round his right forearm, she smiled up at him and said, ‘Shall we walk?’

‘I have—’

‘You might learn much by walking about, that’s what my mother always said.’

They walked toward the bridge. When she judged it far enough and the noise around them sufficiently clamorous, she recounted what Tom and Maud had told her. Glancing up, concerned about his silence, she saw that he was thinking. She was satisfied.

Taking her hand from his arm she said, ‘Now we both have our work. Will we see you in the tavern this even?’

‘Sooner than that.’ He smiled and gave her a bow. ‘I am grateful. And glad to hear that Tom is clear-headed and talkative.’

Conundrum. To continue with his visit to the house behind Helena’s lodging or try to catch Hempe at the Bakers’ home across the bridge? Too late for the latter. He retraced his steps.

And who should he encounter sitting outside the door with the young man who had sat with Jed on the roof, but John Baker, Adam’s elder brother. Seemed Jasper was right. Yet again Owen silently thanked his son.

John bolted upright upon seeing Owen and started to run. Too late. Owen caught his arm and yanked him round.

‘Hand me the rope,’ he commanded the other young man – Leonard, Jed had said. When he hesitated, Owen said, ‘Do you want to join him at the castle, Leonard?’ The rope was in his hand in a moment. ‘Grab his other arm.’

Leonard ducked as John flailed, but caught the arm and held it until Owen joined both arms at the back, connected them to loops round both ankles, and tightened until John toppled down to the ground with a thud.

The young man stood with open mouth, warily watching Owen.

‘I am not after you. This one will be joining his brother in the castle prison.’ A nice bit of luck, finding him there. ‘I came to talk to your family, find out what else you might have noticed about the troubles in the lodging above your home.’

‘Everyone’s away,’ Leonard said.

‘Might we step into your house for a moment?’

‘I don’t think—’

When Owen proceeded to the door, Leonard rushed ahead and opened it.

‘Sounds like Ma is back from market. I didn’t know.’

‘There is a back door?’

‘No, but …’

And what exactly had he intended to do with that rope? Owen bobbed his head as a slender woman in a faded gown came forth, tucking bits of her dark hair into a white cloth. It was difficult to make out her expression, the fire circle in the middle of the one room being the only light except for a small window facing Helena’s lodging – the placement was interesting.

‘Captain Archer.’ He heard the weariness in her voice, with a sharpness at the edges. ‘Have you caught the curs who tossed your man onto our roof?’

‘We are close. I am sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Margery Farnsby.’ She glanced at her son, then out the door, where John writhed on the ground. ‘Is that one of the Baker lads?’

‘The captain—’ Leonard began.

‘Just plucked him up out of whatever hole he crawled out of and brought him here? I am no fool, Leonard. What were you doing with that dung-eater?’ Margery looked at Owen. ‘Is Leonard in trouble?’

‘Are you, Leonard? What was John Baker doing here, besides hiding from the bailiffs after his brother failed to set fire to the stable at the York Tavern?’

‘Set fire?’ Margery took hold of Leonard’s ear and shook him. ‘What do you know about this? Why did he come here to hide?’

Leonard was gasping at the pain, blubbering that he knew nothing.

‘I will shake the truth out of you, son, if it takes all day.’

Raising his hands in surrender, Leonard cried, ‘That woman’s husband offered us a cut for whatever we stole and brought to him. But Adam and John Baker are doing more than that. They’re helping him get to Tom Merchet.’

With a final shake, Margery released him. He crumpled to the floor, holding his ear as he sniveled.

‘Captain, do what you like with this sorry son of mine. I have given him chance after chance, but this – I am finished with him.’

‘Da won’t let you toss me out,’ Leonard sobbed.

Owen crouched down to him. ‘If you help me, perhaps your mother will give you one more chance.’ He glanced up at her. She would need convincing.

By sunset, John Baker shared a cell with his brother Adam, Owen had learned a few useful details from Leonard, had thanked Jasper for his help in catching Adam and coming up with the idea to check the Farnsby house, and suggested he accompany him to the tavern to meet with Hempe and review the day’s discoveries – any insights would be appreciated.

Now the three sat around the table in the back corner of the York Tavern, Owen filling in Jasper and Hempe.

‘I’d already heard about John Baker, but Alice.’ Hempe whistled and stamped his foot, hunching over as all heads in the crowded tavern swiveled to look his way. ‘I found only her husband, lying on a filthy pallet, too weak to say his name,’ he said more softly. ‘And silver they could not possibly afford, a spoon and a goblet.’

‘You confiscated them?’

‘I did. And paid a neighbor to see to poor old John Baker. While doing that I noticed a woman walking out of All Saints, glancing round and behind as if worried she was watched. I stepped in to talk to the painters. She’s come in once a day asking after Hal. I followed her home, and will be on her doorstep first thing tomorrow.’

‘Not tonight?’ Owen asked.

Hempe closed his eyes. ‘I’ve two young men in my home being cared for by my longsuffering wife and if I don’t spend some time there so that she might work on the accounts I will feel all the worse about taking advantage of her good heart.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’ Owen looked to Jasper. ‘Thoughts?’

‘Would Bess and Magda allow you to talk to Tom? Maybe where Will and John Grey lodged before might lead to John and Helena.’ He shrugged. ‘Or not, but anything Tom could tell you would help, wouldn’t it?’

Hempe raised his tankard to Jasper. ‘Fresh eyes, fresh thoughts.’ He waved Mary over and asked her to see whether Magda or Bess would allow it.

Though she expressed her doubts she agreed to ask. While they waited, Hempe said that when he’d stopped at home before coming to the tavern he found Ned sharing the back room with Hal. According to Lotta they’d hardly stopped talking since the midday meal. ‘Hal’s proposed himself as bait to lure Helena. What do you think?’

That should be saved for desperation. Owen was about to voice his opinion when Mary waved him toward the doorway into the bedchambers. ‘Wait for me?’

‘Nothing could pull me away,’ said Hempe.

‘You know we will,’ said Jasper.

Tom nodded to Bess when Owen knocked.

‘This is Tom’s decision,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘I don’t think he is ready, but he does. If he is the worst for it—’

‘I have a duty to a friend who has risked his life for me,’ Tom called out from the bed, fearing Owen would turn away. ‘I pray you, be grateful, do not chide him.’ He meant to take every chance to redeem himself.

‘Of course I am grateful,’ said Bess, ‘but your recovery—’

Magda put a hand on Bess’s shoulder. ‘Thou knowest Bird-eye will do nothing to harm thine husband.’

Tom was glad to see Bess touch Owen’s arm and nod.

‘Come, sit here.’ He patted a chair beside him. ‘Warmed by the women who watch over me.’

He was sorry to see the shadow beneath Owen’s good eye as his neighbor took a seat.

‘I am glad to see you looking so much better. And your voice is much stronger.’

‘Magda has worked her magic.’ His left eye was still covered, but that was the extent of the bandages on his face. He still rested his injured arm in a sling, but his hand was uncovered, the fingers only slightly swollen. Bess told him his flesh was a healthy color and only a little swelling remained. ‘I have the best care. Tell me how I can help you.’

‘John and Helena Grey elude us. We’ve caught the friar who fled London with John, the Baker brothers – thank you for what you told Bess, and the pair from Beverley, including Carl Brimsby. But none of them will talk.’

And no wonder. ‘John Grey is a violent, cruel man. They are right to fear him.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘Jules – we grew up together. Best friends.’ Tom still could not help pausing more than usual. ‘When I left Scarborough for work in Bridlington … Jules stayed behind … took up with the thieving Grey brothers. Got in trouble. Came to find me … brought Will. Fool that I was … lonely, if I’m honest … I let them share my lodgings.’ If only he’d sent Will away. ‘They were caught. A neighbor warned me bailiff sought me. I took my carpentry tools … and fled. Holcomb Manor needed a carpenter. Happy for years. Until …’ He sucked in his breath. Not yet, not Lily.

‘No need to speak of that,’ his friend assured him. Bless him. ‘After your loss they came looking for you. How did they know?’

Better. ‘The Greys and Jules met Brimsby. In Beverley. In his favorite tavern. Bought him drinks. He told them I was a thief.’

‘Yes. Martha said they came to the manor. Seeking help with the ale recipe. And then followed you to York or came with you?’

Tom fought a weariness. ‘I fled with Jules. The brothers came later. Looking for Helena Brimsby. And her child. A favor for Harry Brimsby. I think to kill her and the babe. His child. But he said mine. That I’d cursed the family.’ He would cross himself, but he felt his strength waning. Cursed body. ‘But Will – when he met her he changed his mind.’

Owen sat up. This interested him. ‘Was she already here when you arrived?’

Stay awake. ‘Seemed so.’

‘She did have a child when she came to York?’

‘With child. Her daughter … born in brothel.’

‘Queen Bea’s brothel?’

Tom nodded. He felt his eyelid drooping.

‘Forgive me. But just a few more questions.’ Owen must notice. ‘What happened to her – the daughter?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Angel? Angelica?’

‘The child did not come with Jules to the tavern?’

‘No. Helena … didn’t want her.’

‘Do you know where Will and John lodged back then?’

‘Will … a house near King’s Staithe. Burnt to ground a while ago. John … don’t know.’

Owen rose. ‘This is helpful, my friend. I am grateful. Do you have all you need?’

Tom could but smile. ‘I do. But … how is Martin? Will he be well?’ He’d overheard Magda telling Bess about her visit with Martin. Seemed he’d been unwell even before the injury.

Owen glanced at Magda as she joined them, offering Tom a cup. ‘He is weak,’ Owen said. ‘I’ll return soon, if I’m welcome.’

‘You are. I want to help.’ He could never repay his friend.

Twenty-Seven

Kin

Lucie sipped the wine they were sharing in bed. ‘Helena returned to York to be near her children, and then her husband returned, bringing the friar who says he can cure her clumsiness, and he finds her here. He is jealous of the children she had with other men, and hence not happy she is here.’ She handed Owen the cup.

‘Who is the daughter’s father?’ Owen drank. ‘Tom thinks Harry Brimsby, so Carl might have an additional purpose in coming here, to find his sister.’

‘And kill her?’

Owen thought about that. ‘Or that is why he beat his father, because he will not sanction killing her?’ He turned to Lucie. ‘Are we too eager to fit everything together?’

‘Or do you now have sufficient information to piece together the tale? Go on. What else?’

‘As you say, Grey is angry that he brought her this gift, a friar who claims he can cure her, and discovers she’s betrayed him with her love for her children, neither of them his.’

‘Belated love for the daughter she abandoned?’

‘Or just Hal. Grey mistakes Matt for Hal and kills him. Or one of his thieves does. She sees it as a warning that her child is in danger, and now she and Grey are at war. But Hal believes the cure means everything to her.’

‘Would John Grey pay the friar so much for that?’ Lucie wondered. ‘The coronet alone is worth a king’s ransom – at least.’

Unique items. Difficult to sell unless a wealthy person bought them to enjoy in their home, a hidden pleasure. Or they were purchased for the gold, silver, and gems, to be repurposed. ‘Selling them would take time. And we don’t know that Grey’s discovered them missing. But their value – that might explain why they travelled together, neither trusting the other not to run off with them. And what of the daughter? Where is she? God’s bones, if someone would just talk.’

Lucie kissed him. ‘Go to Queen Bea. Take Stephen, George … and Crispin. Large, strong men. To control Edwin while you question her.’

The embroidered cloth on Beatrice’s table. ‘You’re right.’

She smiled, her hand drifting down his torso. ‘But not at present, my love.’

While Owen was breaking his fast George Hempe arrived, his cheeks red and his clothes and boots damp.

‘You’ve already called on the woman checking All Saints?’ Owen asked as the bailiff removed his boots and headed to the fire to warm himself.

‘I have.’ Hempe settled on a stool near the fire. ‘She is paid by Helena, but has no idea where she lodges, nor when to expect her. And she’s not mentioned a daughter.’

A dead end, unless they watched the house day and night. But an idea was forming in Owen’s mind about who might be sheltering them, and why. At the moment it was but a guess, but he’d seen the cloth.

‘We need to visit Queen Bea,’ he told Hempe. ‘She might be our best hope for finding the Greys.’

‘Queen of the brothels Bea? Are you serious?’

‘I am. I think Crispin should accompany us as well. And Stephen.’

‘Two strong men. I see.’

Owen went out into Davygate and hailed a lad to fetch Stephen and tell him to meet them at Crispin Poole’s home on Coney Street.

A glowering Edwin tried to prevent their entry. ‘The city’s business can wait. My mistress is sleeping.’

‘Wake her, or we will.’ Owen moved forward, forcing Edwin to take a step back, then another, until he turned and hurried off to fetch Beatrice.

Crispin moved through the hall without hesitation, leading them to Beatrice’s parlor. Familiar with this house. Before his marriage to Muriel Swann, and becoming a father, Owen hoped. Stephen followed Crispin without glancing round. He, too, knew this place. But George Hempe swiveled his head from side to side studying the furnishings, the spaces.

Owen looked again at the items he had noticed on the previous visit, especially the cloths. And a silver candlestick.

‘No attempt to hide her wealth,’ said Hempe.

‘Even items best left hidden.’ Owen felt more confident.

He and Crispin settled onto cushioned chairs. Hempe and Stephen chose to stand behind them.

Her scent preceding her, Beatrice swept into the room, taking her seat with her accustomed grace on the cushioned settle. Unlike the previous day, she took care to keep her thin silk gown hidden beneath her green brocade overdress. Meeting the eyes of each in turn, she stopped with her gaze on Owen, calm, steady, as she asked, ‘Your mission?’

Owen hesitated about revealing all he suspected, but he did not want to waste time here if he was wrong. ‘I believe you are sheltering Helena and John Grey in one of your properties in the city. And possibly Helena’s daughter, born in your establishment.’ He kept his voice soft, friendly, as if making an observation, nothing more.

Beatrice smiled. ‘I cannot imagine why you think that.’

‘No? I recognize the embroidered cloth on your table. I saw it in the Savoy.’

Her expression betrayed nothing but curiosity. ‘The palace of the Savoy? I had no idea. It was a gift. As were—’

‘From the Duke of Lancaster?’

‘No, a—’

‘Tell me. What became of Helena’s child, whom she left in your care?’

A loose stitch provided Beatrice something to fuss with as she considered her answer.

No one moved or said a word, the room growing so quiet that the sounds of a spring shower tapping on the house and the clatter of people rushing for cover entered and filled the silence.

Beatrice cleared her throat. ‘I was not keeping this from you. A sad story. My heart hurts to think of it.’

‘We need to hear it.’

She touched her chest. ‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Angelica chose to work for me when she was old enough. Much like her mother, Helena, she enjoyed the work. Unlike her mother she was honest, kind, and moved with grace. Too kind. Without a thought for her own safety she nursed many of her friends during a visitation of the pestilence. When she succumbed to it she went quickly. So young, so fair.’ Beatrice dabbed her eyes with a cloth and bowed her head.

‘May God grant her rest,’ said Owen, and nothing more for a moment. ‘It must have stung Helena upon her recent return to learn of her daughter’s death.’

Beatrice kept her head down, but her breathing changed.

‘Enough. Tell us where you are lodging Helena and John so that they keep quiet about your training her daughter as a whore, the innocent she left in your care. Who died in your care.’

Her eyes snapped as she met Owen’s gaze. A crack in her façade at last. ‘I did nothing of the sort. She’s talking, is she? Has she told you that she cursed her daughter, called her an abomination born of incest?’

‘Condemned for her parents’ sins,’ Crispin whispered.

So Tom was right, she was Harry and Helena’s child. ‘I knew nothing of that,’ Owen lied.

‘What has she—’

‘You asked why I thought you were sheltering them, and this tale makes it all the more likely. Bawds and their brothels are tolerated as long as they make no trouble, stir no controversy beyond the walls of their establishments. You would consider it good business to do the Greys a favor that saved your reputation. Even better that they gave you the embroidered cloth to ensure your silence. And more, perhaps.’

Bea’s eyes flashed, her mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

‘You have. The Duke of Lancaster’s men are searching for John Grey and the friar with whom he fled London with treasures they stole from the duke’s palace. Including the embroidered cloth on your table.’

‘They have come all this way chasing suspected thieves?’ An insouciant shrug. ‘The duke’s men are welcome to come retrieve it. I will wrap it and have it ready for them.’

‘Theirs were not petty crimes. Rioting, breaking the king’s peace, setting fire to the duke’s palace. And the friar – he published a horoscope of the king predicting his death, an act of treason, accused the Duke of Lancaster of intending to steal the throne from Prince Richard. The duke is not at all pleased. If I were to inform them that you—’

‘No.’ She was no longer amused. ‘I will tell you where they are. Or where I believe them to be for I’ve heard nothing from them since I gave them the key.’

Owen glanced at his men when she gave the location of the property. Stephen and Hempe knew it.

As the others moved out, Owen lingered a moment. ‘You might also wrap the items Friar Jerome stole from St Leonard’s chapel, the cloth, the candlestick, and anything else you received from them. I will collect them later.’

The beautiful eyes finally registered dismay. ‘You will tell Erkenwald?’

Owen bowed and departed.

Mary hurried toward a lodger who shook the rain off his short cloak as he entered the tavern room. ‘Ale by the fire while you dry off?’ she suggested, taking his cloak.

‘Most appreciated, Dame Mary.’ The lodger smiled as he followed her to a table.

Bess was glad to witness it. Responsibility had lifted Mary from her grief.

A moment later Issy rushed in, breathless, drenched, babbling something to Mary between brief pauses to gulp air. Bess intervened to lead the girl to her parlor between the tavern room and the kitchen, taking a basket from her hands and setting it on the table as she removed her wet cloak and handed her a rag to dry herself.

‘Now sit.’

Issy did so, shivering as she patted her wet hair.

Bess moved the dripping basket to the floor and dried the table, then sat across from Issy. ‘What is it? What’s happened? Did someone frighten you? Where’s Tupper? Was he not waiting for you?’

‘He was there. Even late as I was because of the woman. He’s following her.’ The girl fussed with her hair. ‘I’m not fit—’

Bess took her cold hands and held them quiet. ‘Start from the beginning. What woman?’

‘A few days past I saw this woman buying herbs and roots from a man Ma does not trust, says he’s sickened people, maybe even worse, more than he’s helped.’ She bit her bottom lip as if trying to decide what came next.

Bess asked a few questions, helping Issy sort out her thoughts. Eventually she understood. That same woman approached Issy as she walked toward Bootham Bar to enter the city that morning and thrust the basket toward her, saying she had made bread for Tom Merchet, but could not spare the time to deliver the loaves herself. Recognizing the woman, Issy didn’t trust her, and when she met Tupper she told him why. They watched from an alley to see whether she entered the city.

‘And there she was, hurrying along, and Tupper said, that’s Alice Baker. It was her sons came here yesterday to make trouble.’

‘No wonder you were late, and so wet.’ Bess leaned down and peeled back the wet cloth covering the basket. Several small loaves of bread. She lifted one, heavy with water, and sniffed. ‘Oof.’ It smelled unpleasant, like old shoes. Alice and her husband had produced inferior bread, but none with such a rank scent.

‘I did the right thing, Mistress Merchet?’

‘You did.’ Bess dropped the loaf onto the others, wiped her hands, and took both of Issy’s in hers. ‘You did very well, Issy. I fear these loaves were meant to weaken my husband even more, or make anyone who ate it ill. I am grateful.’ She pressed the girl’s hands and released them. ‘I am going to consult Dame Magda about these. You sit here until you feel warm enough to work.’

‘But I’m already late.’ Issy started to rise.

Bess waved her down and went into the kitchen to tell Mary to check that Issy was warm and dry before she went to work.

If Magda agreed about the bread, Bess would get word to Owen to arrest Alice Baker for trying to poison Tom. She said a quick prayer for Tupper. No telling what that sly woman would do if she noticed him following her.

Hempe went straight from Beatrice’s house to find someone to watch it. Heads together, Owen, Crispin, and Stephen were discussing how to trap the Greys and paying little heed to the alleyway when someone called out, ‘Captain!’

Denis stood at the entrance to the alley leading to Beatrice’s home. Pale, hollow-eyed, he looked as if he had not slept since the incident at the abbey.

‘I bring news of more trouble,’ he said. ‘Bertram – we parted yesterday morning when leaving St Mary’s. He said he must see to some business but would meet me at Micklegate Priory where we planned to lodge. He only now arrived, in a cart, stabbed and beaten.’

‘Who attacked him?’ Owen asked. ‘Where?’

‘He says John and Helena Grey assaulted him on the road just outside Micklegate Bar. Beat him and took what he carried. A stranger found him in a ditch and brought him to the priory.’

A blessing he was able to talk. Bertram fleeing the city, the Greys following him. ‘Why would they follow him?’ Owen wondered aloud.

‘That may be the worst of it for our mission. He fled the city with the duke’s treasures we’d taken from the house in Beverley. How they knew he had them with him I cannot guess, except that he was indiscreet.’

By now Owen’s two companions had joined them, muttering their dismay.

Owen had not imagined Bertram betraying the duke so blatantly. ‘He meant to keep the items?’

‘He says he meant to deliver them up to Lancaster and beg for his mercy before a letter arrived condemning his behavior here.’

‘Do you believe him?’

Denis shrugged. ‘So much deception. How can one know what is true? Will you come?’

‘We were headed to where the Greys have been lodging,’ said Hempe.

‘You’ve found them? Might I accompany you?’

Owen took a good look at Denis. ‘You seem ready to topple right here. Better that you rest at your lodgings. I will meet you at the priory later, when I talk to Bertram. How did you know to find me here?’

‘Dame Lucie was kind enough to tell me. I see that Martin Wirthir is lodging with you.’

‘Until he is sufficiently healed, yes.’ Owen waited for more.

But Denis only nodded, bobbed his head to the others, said, ‘Until later, Captain,’ and walked away.

Tupper arrived while Issy still sat in Bess’s parlor, but she scrambled up to follow him to the door of the bedchamber.

‘Did you find her?’

‘I did, Issy.’ He knocked on the door.

Bess answered, put a finger to her lips and stepped out, shutting the door behind her. ‘Tom is sleeping.’ She led them to her parlor. ‘So?’

‘I followed Mistress Baker.’

‘And?’

‘She did not go to her home, but one close to it, up above All Saints. Looked like a comfortable lodging, a hall, with steps to a solar, I think. She argued with a woman who answered the door, then stepped in. I was too far away to hear what they said, but the woman was not pleased to see Goodwife Baker.’

‘Could you find it again?’

‘Course I could. I was just there.’

With a nod, Bess told him to get to work in the tavern, ‘But be ready to go out again.’

Telling the others he would meet them at Hempe’s home, Owen went to ask Brother Michaelo for help with a plan for which he needed a cleric. Near the minster gates Tupper hailed him.

‘I have news, Captain. About Alice Baker.’

‘I have business at Archdeacon Jehannes’s in the minster close. Walk with me and tell me what’s happened.’

Owen listened with interest to the tale involving Issy and a gift of bread for Tom. The house he described was the one for which Beatrice had given the Greys the key.

‘This is useful news, Tupper, and comes at a good time. Thank you, and thank Issy and Bess for me.’

‘Do you need help? I can lead you to the house.’

‘I just learned where it is. It’s where the Greys are lodging, and I’ll be heading there with my men.’ Seeing the young man’s excitement, Owen regretted disappointing him, but he was needed elsewhere. ‘I need you back at the tavern, watching out for anyone trying to cause trouble while we’re busy elsewhere. I think it likely. Can I count on you?’

For a moment, Tupper slumped, deflated, but then he straightened. ‘You can, Captain. You can trust me to this.’ He loped off.

Owen found both Michaelo and Jehannes at home. After delivering the morning’s news, he explained what he needed. Jehannes thought it a good plan, but Michaelo was doubtful.

‘I will step out to the garden and let you discuss it,’ Owen said. The archdeacon was good at bringing Michaelo round.

In the walled garden Owen paced and considered how to approach the property near All Saints across the river and what might induce one of the Greys to talk. Alice Baker was simple – she had attempted to sicken an already weak man and would be taken to the castle to await a judge. But the Greys were trickier, more experienced. Not that they might be proved innocent – even if they were accused only of the attack on Bertram Hawkins, the sheriff would agree they must be held for trial, Bertram’s status ensuring that, as well as that of Denis. If Michaelo agreed to call on them he could distract them while Owen prepared the way to bring in his men …

Michaelo stepped out into the garden. ‘I will do it.’

Hempe and Stephen and a group of men waited with a covered cart in a yard from which they could see the Greys’ lodging while Owen and Crispin escorted Hal, Friar Jerome, and Brother Michaelo down an alley to the house. It was a well-tended home on a slight rise above North Street, tucked behind a chandler’s shop, with a gate leading into a tidy yard, rising two stories, with outer stairs to the upper level as Tupper had described.

As they reached the shop, Owen and Crispin broke away toward the back of the house, while Brother Michaelo led the friar and Hal to the front door.

Brother Michaelo whispered a prayer as Hal stepped up to the door and knocked. A courageous act on his part considering that the man who wanted him dead might open it. When Hal had spoken of his mother and her involvement with John Grey, his voice had been quiet, but with calm, rather as if anger and disgust coiled tightly within him. For that reason Michaelo could not guess whether Hal would be able to speak the kind words he’d rehearsed with any conviction, though he prayed that he could. If he failed, Michaelo might need the dagger he carried. Shifting the rope binding Jerome’s hands behind him to his other hand, Michaelo felt for the sheathed dagger hidden beneath his scapular for reassurance. Unfortunately, the movement caused Friar Jerome to twist round to see what he was doing, stirring up the unpleasant, moldy scent of his habit. They had cleaned him up as best they could in the castle, but the stench remained. Already queasy, Michaelo turned away to breathe. And this slippery friar, would he do his part?

Hal knocked again and a woman opened the door a crack.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Hal, Mother.’

She opened the door wider. So this tall, slender woman was Helena Brimsby Grey. Michaelo could see a little of Hal in her.

‘You should not be here, my son,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Even more softly she added, ‘But my heart is gladdened to see you well.’

Hal kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve come to warn you against a woman who might drag you into trouble. And I have brought someone you wanted to see. Friar Jerome.’ Well done. He hid his feelings well.

Michaelo nudged the friar toward the door.

Helena frowned at the friar. ‘But how? I’d heard you were in the castle prison, Dom Jerome.’

‘He has been,’ said Michaelo. ‘I obtained permission to bring him to you. Forgive me, I am Brother Michaelo, from St Mary’s Abbey.’ Nominally true, though he had not lived there in over a decade. For his sins. His heart pounded as he waited for her to realize what his presence meant, that their whereabouts were known. Jehannes and Owen felt certain he could talk his way round it, but he was not so sure. If she had eluded the law for so long she would doubtless see the danger in his presence.

The woman frowned at Michaelo. ‘Why would you do this for me?’

Perhaps he was wrong? ‘Your son told me about you, and that this friar might have the power to heal you,’ said Michaelo. ‘Regardless of his crime, he might yet do some good. I agreed to do my best to bring him to you.’

‘I am grateful to him, Mother.’ Again, just enough of the hopeful son in his voice.

‘May we enter?’ asked Michaelo.

She shook her head and began to shut the door as she hissed, ‘You have betrayed us.’

There. She did see the danger.

Hal pushed against the door, causing her to stumble, but caught her arm and drew her inside. ‘I have not betrayed you. No one knows where we are, and Brother Michaelo has sworn not to tell. I am trying to help you, Mother. Friar Jerome can cure you.’ Perhaps too rough with her, but his voice implored.

She stepped back. ‘How can I trust you won’t tell? Or that you were not followed?’

‘Is this not what you’ve prayed for? To no longer stumble but hold your head high and walk straight and steady?’ Hal’s voice was tight with emotion. ‘I’ve risked everything to bring him to you.’

What mother would not melt to hear it? Michaelo nudged Friar Jerome over the threshold, then shut the door behind him. He glanced round the room. A ladder led up to a solar, a door at the back led to what looked like a pantry, where someone in skirts hid beside the door. No one else that he could see.

‘Why are Dom Jerome’s hands bound?’ Helena demanded.

‘A concession I made to bring him to you,’ said Michaelo. ‘I have sworn to return him to the castle, but if I report that God worked through Friar Jerome to heal you I am confident he will walk free in a short while.’

‘You agreed to this, Dom Jerome?’ she asked the friar.

Michaelo twisted the friar’s bonds, reminding him of the pain to come should he betray them.

‘I promised your husband that I could cure you. I will need several items … Is your husband here?’

‘He’s gone out.’

Michaelo did not like the sudden hardness in the woman’s eyes as she motioned them to benches round a fire circle. ‘I will bring refreshments and then you can tell me what you need, Father.’ She hurried toward the back of the house.

Whispers, then a door shutting. Michaelo prayed Owen and Crispin were ready.

Twenty-Eight

The Circle Broken

From the shadow to the side of the kitchen Owen and Crispin watched the door across the tidy garden and listened for signs of engagement.

‘He’s knocked,’ Crispin whispered. ‘Again. I hear voices.’

Moments went by, the murmur of voices louder. Crispin cursed beneath his breath. ‘What are they doing?’

‘At least we’ve heard no shouts,’ Owen said.

A moment later a woman came rushing out of the house, pausing, turning this way and that. Not Helena, this woman was steady on her feet. As she turned toward the kitchen and her coif no longer hid her face Owen recognized Alice Baker. When she turned again, her back to him, he lunged forward and grabbed her, covered her mouth, and pulled her behind the kitchen. Crispin signaled the men up above to fetch her, then held her still while Owen bound her hands.

While adding a gag, Owen said, ‘That’s for all the lies you’ve spread about my wife.’ He felt a grim satisfaction at the outrage in her eyes.

Leaving her to the men coming to collect her, Owen and Crispin crept across the garden to the open door. It led into a small room to the back of the hall. Friar Jerome was reciting a litany of items that no ordinary house would have to hand.

‘We have managed to gather much of it,’ said a woman.

‘Stay here on watch,’ Owen whispered. Though one-handed, Crispin more than made up for the lack with his proficiency with a dagger and his strength. ‘I’m climbing the outside steps to the solar.’

Magda had been summoned to a birth and Tom had Bess to himself. She stood by the window cutting rose hips. For him. Laced with honey, the rosehip tisane was his favorite warm drink. She hummed to herself, her pretty face smooth with calm, occasionally glancing over to smile at him. He wished he were standing beside her, his arms round her waist.

She was turning from the window to add the bowl of rose hips to the boiling water when someone …

‘No! Bess!’ Tom struggled with the covers that had somehow twisted round his legs.

The intruder reached through the window and grabbed her by the throat, another hand round her waist, and pulled, dragging her back against the window.

Free of the covers, Tom stood, trying to shout, ‘Murder!’ But it came out too softly and he had to sit to catch his breath. This body that had lifted filled barrels with ease now betrayed him in Bess’s hour of need. God give me strength. He fought to stand as Bess flung up the hand in which she still grasped the shears and stabbed backwards, once, twice, thrice. The man lost his grip, howling as he fell out the window. Bess dropped the shears and stumbled forward, gasping.

Tom caught her. Blood on her hands and sleeve. ‘Are you hurt? I’ll get help.’

And suddenly Mary was there. ‘I heard … Mother, you’re bleeding!’ She reached for Bess’s right arm.

‘Not mine,’ Bess said. ‘Stabbed.’ She gestured toward the window.

‘He’s out there,’ said Tom. Damn his weak voice. ‘John Grey tried to kill Bess.’

‘No. You,’ Bess whispered, holding him tight.

‘God help us,’ Mary breathed, looking toward the window.

Blood dripping from one eye, a knife in his mouth, John Grey was pulling himself up over the sill.

Mary rushed to the door and shouted for help.

Bess broke away from Tom, hissing, ‘No, you won’t,’ as she picked up a chair and charged Grey, cracking it over his head. While he fought to keep his balance she picked up the shattered pieces and used them to push him out into the yard. ‘Bastard!’ she shouted, and slammed the shutter, hooking it closed.

Tom stumbled toward her. ‘Bess. My Bess. What can I do?’

‘Stay,’ she commanded in a choked voice as she hurried out to the tavern.

He was useless. His body broken. But he felt a rage building within. Good. Anger was good. It made him move. He picked up the dropped shears and thrust open the shutter, leaning over the sill ready to finish off the cur.

But there was no need. Tupper had Grey face down in the dirt and was tying his hands behind his back, Old Bede holding down the man’s legs.

Mary arrived with an armful of rope. ‘To bind the creature’s ankles.’

Tupper finished the job and stood back, nodding. ‘He’s going nowhere.’

Bess appeared, marching toward Grey with a look on her face Tom prayed she would never turn on him. With a shout she kicked Grey and stamped down hard on his most vulnerable spot. ‘I trust you have at last learned not to threaten the Merchets.’

Grey groaned and twisted in a futile attempt to protect himself.

Bess, dear Bess, with the heart of a warrior.

‘Tupper, find the captain and tell him John Grey may be bleeding to death in the York Tavern yard,’ Bess said, then fell into Mary’s arms, sobbing.

It should be Tom consoling her. His darling Bess. He’d driven her to this. He sank down onto the floor and bowed his head.

The window at the top of the outer steps was shuttered, but some of the room was visible through chinks here and there. Packs lay open on a bed, clothing and something large wrapped in a leather bag. Owen moved so that he could see the tip of a ladder that would lead down to the hall. No one in the solar. Glancing back at the steps to check that he wasn’t followed he saw Stephen approaching and gestured to him to guard the front door. Stephen bobbed his head and moved in that direction, crouching to avoid a window.

When Owen stepped inside the solar the voices below became loud and clear. He crept forward. The group gathered round a central fire. Helena, whom he recognized from the morning at St Helen’s and from Hal’s painting, was placing items on a stool – a silver bowl, silver spoon, a mortar and pestle, a pewter flagon, an assortment of small bottles and jars. Putting on a good show, or they had rehearsed this in case.

She glanced up at Friar Jerome, who stood beside her. ‘Will these do? We could not find the beakers you listed.’

‘I cannot promise …’

Michaelo, who was untying the bonds, gave him a shake.

‘It is in God’s hands,’ said the friar, sighing as he moved his arms forward and shook out his hands, rolled his shoulders. He rubbed his wrists as he took a seat beside the stool.

Michaelo stood behind him, hand on the dagger Owen knew he’d hidden beneath his scapular.

The friar glanced back. ‘You are crowding me. Sit elsewhere.’

‘I am where I need to be,’ said Michaelo.

The friar muttered something that Owen could not hear.

Brother Michaelo sniffed. ‘You would risk offending Our Lord when he is needed for the healing?’

The friar turned and lifted one of the bottles.

‘Should I pray with you, Dom Jerome?’ Helena perched on the bench beside him.

‘First you must give me the items your husband promised me, Dame Helena. He assured me I would have what I needed to build a church up on the moors, and that I would receive the payment before I began.’

‘You’ve wasted enough time,’ said Hal. ‘You will be paid when you’ve cured my mother.’

Helena tilted her head and considered the friar. ‘My son is right. I cannot in good conscience pay you for something you have not done.’

Even from up above Owen could see how tightly Jerome clenched his jaw, how he struggled for control. ‘As you wish.’ He reached for a second bottle.

Owen slung the pouch that Helena and John had stolen from Bertram over his shoulder and tied a cloth from the bed round his face below the eyes, readying himself.

Jerome poured the contents of two bottles into the silver bowl and sprinkled powders from one of the jars. As he held the bowl over the fire the preparation began to smoke. Hal coughed.

‘Cover your faces!’ Owen shouted as he clambered down the ladder.

By the time Owen reached the room, Michaelo was holding the friar with a dagger to his throat and Hal was dragging his mother from the house.

Owen relieved Michaelo, handing him a cloth. They moved to the door, Owen dragging the gasping friar. In the yard he delivered him into Stephen’s hands. ‘Tie him up and toss him into the cart.’

‘I am a man of God,’ the friar rasped.

‘Then I suggest you pray.’ Owen headed for Hal, who was struggling to hold his flailing mother.

Plucking her from Hal, Owen pressed her back to his chest, pinning her arms to her sides. ‘You are not in quite so much trouble as John and the friar,’ he said in her ear. ‘You might go far in redeeming yourself if you tell me all you know about them and your coterie of thieves.’

‘You ask me to betray my husband,’ Helena said in a choked voice. ‘The man who has only ever wanted my happiness.’

‘Tell the captain all that you know about John Grey and the false friar,’ said Hal, voice rough from the smoke. ‘It will help you.’ He bent over to cough.

Helena showed no motherly concern, looking toward Brother Michaelo, Crispin, and Hempe, who had joined them. ‘I knew this was a trap. You never meant for the friar to heal me. Your father pushed you to do this, didn’t he?’ Her voice was hard. But she had stopped struggling.

Hal recovered himself. ‘My father is dead. He had not spoken of you in years.’

‘Now you’ve done your part you no longer pretend to care.’

‘You stayed with the man who meant to kill me and murdered an innocent instead.’

‘Step away, Hal.’ Owen did not need another scuffle. He called Stephen over to help him bind her. ‘Your mother will sit up in the wagon, away from the men,’ he told Hal.

‘Where are you taking her?’

‘She is for the castle to answer for her crimes.’

‘But if she cooperates?’

‘We will see.’

Hal turned away.

The cart was about to leave the yard when Tupper appeared, sweating and huffing as if he’d run across the city. When he’d caught his breath he excitedly reenacted his, Mary’s, and Bess’s parts in felling John Grey.

Bess blinding him with shears. Owen’s own blinded eye throbbed to think of it. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Still in the yard,’ said Tupper. ‘Dame Lucie offered to see to his eye but he cursed her. Earned a kick in the side from me.’

‘Shall we finish him?’ asked Hempe under his breath.

‘Tempting. But better he suffers Lancaster’s pleasure. I’d like you and Michaelo to question Helena at the castle. Hal has a right to hear it if he likes.’ Hal nodded. ‘Go along. The cart will be there soon.’

Stephen stayed behind with another man to watch the house while Owen and Crispin accompanied Tupper to the tavern, the cart trundling behind them. Tupper was quiet, looking spent and ready to retire to the tavern for a good long drink.

‘Quite a day,’ Crispin said as they crossed the bridge.

Owen nodded. Beatrice’s confession, Denis’s news about Bertram, the careful planning that won them three prisoners, and Bess’s heroism. And it wasn’t over. As they reached St Helen’s cemetery Owen told Tupper and the men driving the cart that he would join them in the tavern yard soon.

‘With me, Crispin.’

‘Where are we headed?’

‘To talk to Beatrice.’

‘Again?’

‘Someone in her household warned John Grey.’

Crispin grunted. ‘I’d missed that.’

They found the door unlocked, a young man tied to a chair in the hall, head bowed, moaning.

‘What happened here?’ asked Crispin.

Owen moved on toward a murmur of voices in the parlor. Beatrice sat on her cushioned settle wrapping a vase in a cloth as she told Edwin what to bring next.

‘Are you preparing to travel?’ Owen asked from the doorway.

‘Captain.’ No lazy smile this afternoon. ‘The kitchen servant—’

Edwin stepped toward him. Owen grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him round, and twisted his arm behind him. Beatrice gasped at his handling of Edwin but did not move.

‘You will be disappointed to learn that your warning did not protect the Greys,’ Owen said. ‘At this moment they are both heading to the castle, with John in some discomfort, possibly blinded in one eye. Worry not, he will be tended by a friar who sees to the injuries of the prisoners.’

‘Why would I worry about John Grey?’

‘You do not care about those who work for you?’

‘He doesn’t … The warning. Of course. That was the work of the servant you saw tied up in the hall. As for this’ – she gestured toward a small pile of cloth-wrapped items of all shapes – ‘you had requested that I prepare them for you. I pray you, let Edwin go. We are cooperating.’

‘Clever. But too late.’

‘It is never too late to repent, Captain. I should not have sheltered them.’

Crispin joined them. ‘The servant confessed. A groat a day since you returned from Beverley, to keep the Greys informed. He heard us talking to Denis in the alley.’

‘He told you willingly?’

‘My dagger encouraged him. But Edwin had softened him up. He’d begun to suspect, shook out the servant’s scrip when he was out of the house, and found the coins.’

‘I see.’ Owen met Beatrice’s gaze. ‘We will take your manservant with us. One of my men will collect the goods.’

‘I am sorry I did not tell you at once, Captain,’ said Beatrice.

He nodded and left the room.

Brother Michaelo had taken a seat in the cell awash with gratitude that Owen’s plan had worked. God watched over them. He drew out a wax tablet, stylus, and began taking notes of Helena’s ramblings. Strange that this was the culmination of the search for Tom Merchet. When it came time to report this to Princess Joan – for surely she would expect it – he would be hard pressed to make sense of it all. Helena kept rambling, occasionally saying something of use. Enough that he drew out a second wax tablet. Which was when she admitted to having sent Dugger to Beverley to accuse Tom Merchet of the beating carried out in fact by John and a few men.

‘Was Carl one of them?’ Hempe asked.

‘He has no love for his father, I assure you.’

Not a yes, but close enough.

‘Why did they beat him?’ Michaelo asked.

‘To punish him for forcing himself on me all those years ago, and beating me.’

‘You set them to this?’ asked Hempe.

A coy smile. ‘John would do anything for me.’

‘Mother,’ Hal hissed from the corner.

To brag of such a thing. What manner of woman was she?

‘Why accuse Tom Merchet?’ Hempe asked. ‘What had he done to you?’

She rested her head against the stone wall. ‘That was John. That, and the beating. Carl and his friend gladly helped. Revenge for the murder of John’s brother. Tom and Jules murdered Will.’

‘They did not!’ Hal cried. ‘My father said—’

‘Be quiet, boy. Tell me, Bailiff. How did you know where to find us?’

‘Your landlady,’ said Hempe.

‘Queen Bea?’ She sat up, her eyes burning. ‘The bitch betrayed us? Cunt! Greedy witch. I might have gone free but for her.’ She pointed to Brother Michaelo. ‘Write that all down. Her lust isn’t for men, but for riches. Monstrous, unnatural she-devil. She should burn at the stake!’

‘Did she plan the thefts?’ Michaelo asked.

‘Her?’ A laugh. ‘She is not so smart as she thinks. Her servant was so easy to tempt. On errands for her he gathered information for us. And he gave us the names of those she still entertains, the wealthy ones. And when they were away from home.’

Surely not Dom Erkenwald. But the hospital chapel. Michaelo imagined the friar on his knees praying for absolution.

‘You convinced John Grey that it was Tom and Jules who murdered his brother,’ said Hempe. ‘Do you secretly smile when he curses them? Or was he already dead from the fall but you wanted to make certain, and Tom’s dagger was there?’ He kept his voice curious.

‘Men are so easily shamed. And so certain a woman would never do such a thing.’ A little laugh. ‘I pretended horror, pleaded with them to bury him and the dagger in the yard to save themselves. Sweet Jules took me away to protect me.’

‘And to protect Tom,’ said Hal. ‘He knew what you’d done and he hoped to keep you from ruining his good friend.’

A shrug. ‘So you say. All those years at Rievaulx, a murderer repenting.’ That sly grin.

‘He was making amends for what he’d done to Tom, and how mad it had been to love you.’ Hal no longer tried to hide his disgust. ‘You are poison.’

Helena lunged, but her bonds held. ‘Ungrateful bastard! You are a bastard, you know. I never married your lily-livered father.’

Hempe rose. ‘I believe we have sufficient information.’

Hal was already stumbling toward the door.

Michaelo stuffed his tools into his bag and went to steady him. ‘You will be in my prayers,’ he said softly. ‘I hope you will resume your work at All Saints.’

‘If they’ll have me.’

‘Traitorous wretch,’ Helena hissed.

Hempe motioned them out the door.

Long after Grey had been taken away in the cart Tom sat by the window, now in a high-backed chair, staring out. ‘You are sure it is over?’ he asked Owen.

‘It is over. I doubt any of them will be free to trouble us.’

Magda touched Tom’s shoulder. ‘Thou hast sat up long enough.’

He nodded. ‘I would sleep a while.’ As Owen helped him to the bed, Tom whispered, ‘I couldn’t protect her.’

‘I heard that,’ said Bess as she plumped his pillows. ‘This was all about you protecting me from ruin. You will be up and about and protecting me again soon enough.’

Her kindness pierced him. ‘I vow to use every waking hour to regain my strength.’

She kissed him, her lips soft, warm. ‘I expect nothing less, my Tom,’ she murmured in his ear, ‘but rest a while longer.’ There were tears in her eyes as she offered him honey water. ‘I will brew the rosehip tea soon.’

He drank her in as he sipped the honey water. Here, uninjured, forgiving all. He was immensely blessed. ‘Thank you.’ He kissed her hand as she took the cup.

‘I will see to the rose hips, my love.’

Tom watched her cross the room to join Magda and Owen. They stood near the window, Magda touching the scar beneath Owen’s patch. ‘Thou couldst feel his pain in thine own eye.’

‘Yes.’

‘God help me, I never thought!’ Bess cried. ‘I would never have inflicted such an injury had I been able to see—’

Owen kissed Bess’s forehead. ‘What you did was brave. You saved yourself and Tom from a man who has done you grave harm, and meant to do more.’

‘And Queen Bea. I was a fool to believe her.’

‘No.’ Brother Michaelo stood in the doorway, his long face pinched and drawn. ‘She, too, was a victim in her own way. And you have carried a burden of guilt that was not yours, Tom. I have much to tell.’

Wooden screens shielded Bertram’s bed from the others in the infirmary at the priory. Denis sat beside it, watching a monk drip something syrupy onto Bertram’s slightly-parted lips. A nearby brazier gave the room a pleasant scent. A comfortable scene, were it not for the swelling and bruises on the man who lay in the bed.

‘Has he said any more?’ Owen asked.

Denis sighed. It was evident from the shadows beneath his eyes that he had not rested. ‘He asked my forgiveness. And whether the duke would now cast him out.’

Lancaster rarely showed mercy. ‘He can speak, but he cannot sit up and drink?’

‘He refuses. So while he sleeps they give him a little nourishment.’ A shrug. ‘I do not think he means to recover.’

The monk murmured a prayer.

‘We have recovered the duke’s property, the Greys and the friar are in custody, as well as others. Why not take some rest, Denis?’

‘And then might I meet Wirthir?’

‘If he wishes it.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Brother Michaelo as he left Tom’s bedchamber with Hempe, Crispin, Jasper, and Owen.

‘With the weight off his shoulders he will recover quickly now,’ said Owen. But he, too, had been surprised by the number and depth of questions Tom had asked. Even Bess had abandoned her hovering and settled to listen.

‘He clarified matters for me, helped me order them in my head,’ said Michaelo. ‘I will write it out tonight, deliver it in the morning.’

‘I would be most grateful,’ said Hempe. ‘My mind’s still in a whirl. Alice Baker, a murderer. I thought her a shrew, nothing more.’

Owen had felt a chill when Hempe spoke of John Grey’s account. He had ordered Helena to kill her own son, to prove her loyalty, her worthiness to receive the gift he had brought her, the alchemist who would heal her. But she had lured Matt and paid Alice Baker to kill him. Bitch thought she’d fool me, but the gossips put me straight. John Grey had been furious at the attempted deception.

‘You’re all in need of sleep,’ said Crispin. ‘But first an ale?’

Brother Michaelo bowed to them, but Crispin took his arm. ‘One tankard in the tavern to celebrate all your hard work will not erase all the good you do, Brother Michaelo. Surely.’

Twenty-Nine

Sad Tidings, Grim Fates, Resolutions

Lucie hesitated, smelling the ale on Jasper’s breath. But he sounded clear-headed and was eager to take over in the shop so that she might go to Bess.

‘I drank but a little,’ he said. ‘I learned my lesson this past autumn. I would not wish a repeat of that night and what followed on anyone, especially me.’ His crooked grin convinced her.

As soon as she entered the bedchamber, Lucie was caught up in Bess’s embrace.

‘My dear friend, now I understand how difficult it is for you when Owen is away. Tom’s disappearance – I thought I would die without him.’ Bess released Lucie and stepped back. ‘I am grateful to Owen and Jasper. More than I can say.’ She blotted her eyes with a cloth.

‘No more grateful than I am,’ said Tom.

Lucie went to him and found herself pulled close for a kiss. She managed to settle on the bed while still caught up in a hug. ‘Your strength has returned.’ She laughed with him, and it was good to see the merriment in his eyes, his healthy color. ‘My heart is glad to see you so recovered.’

‘How fares Martin Wirthir?’

Not the happiest of questions. Lucie hesitated, but she sensed Magda’s eyes on her. ‘He is weak, and will not entirely recover his strength.’ She looked across the bed to where Magda sat.

‘Pirate’s heart is weak. Magda has given him a potion for strength, but it cannot turn back the years. He understands that his adventures are behind him.’

‘Will he stay here?’ Tom asked. ‘Jasper would like that.’

Her son would, Lucie had no doubt. ‘Martin has land in the Low Countries and people he would like to see. And then he will decide where to live out his life.’

‘Is that why he came to York? To see Jasper once more?’ Tom asked.

‘Owen and Brother Michaelo as well.’ She would let Jasper decide whether to share with these friends who were part of the family that he was Martin’s heir, an expression of affection that meant far more to him than the material benefit.

Tom pressed her hand. ‘I would like to thank him for his help on the journey from Beverley.’

‘You will get your chance. He is not yet well enough to travel, and he fully intends to come to the tavern when you are up and about.’

It was late afternoon the following day, darkness creeping in outside the windows of the hall where Brother Michaelo, Hempe, Martin, Jasper, and Crispin listened to Owen’s account of his conversation with the sheriff. It had not been a cordial meeting, the fault of Sir John who ordered Owen to send all the prisoners to the Duke of Lancaster, not just John Grey and Friar Jerome. He did not take it with good grace when Owen schooled him in his duties.

‘If only Sir Ralph were still sheriff,’ Hempe said. ‘Or just about anyone else. Sir John wants to wash his hands of any work, any responsibility.’

Owen nodded. ‘He will be put in his place when the duke receives his messenger, I assure you.’

‘He did not take your word for it?’ Crispin asked, and seeing Owen’s expression, he grinned. ‘That will be a moment for him.’

‘Hangings for all, I would guess,’ said Martin. ‘I cannot see any judge having mercy on them.’

‘All of them?’ asked Jasper.

Owen had thought Carl and Bolt might be spared, but that changed with word of Harry Brimsby’s death. ‘I think it likely. But that is not my decision. My part is over, unless I am called to an inquest.’ He slapped his thighs and rose. ‘I would like a moment with you, Brother Michaelo, and then I look forward to a quiet evening with Martin and my family.’

Michaelo had chosen to sit beneath the linden in the garden. A breeze carried scents of early blossoms and rich earth.

‘It is peaceful here.’

‘Once more you proved yourself indispensable,’ said Owen.

‘It is now a habit,’ said Michaelo.

Owen chuckled. But he had a purpose in speaking of this. ‘I have come to depend on you, yet I fear I am keeping you from your good works and prayer. I have no right—’

‘No, Owen. This is my choice. I am a penitent. All that I do, for you and for the poor in the minster yard, is in reparation for my sins.’

‘I am your penance,’ Owen said, tasting that.

Michaelo’s turn to chuckle. ‘Archbishop Thoresby often referred to me as his hair shirt.’

Owen grinned. ‘He did. Does that mean that working with you is penance for me as well?’

‘Is it?’

‘I need to think about that.’

In the early morning, Owen answered a knock at the door. ‘Erkenwald! Come in, do.’ He stepped aside, motioning him to the boot bench.

‘I cannot stay,’ said the friar, his face lined and weary. ‘I come only to deliver this.’ He handed Owen a key. ‘Beatrice gives the Merchets the house where she’d sheltered the Greys, in amends. I ask that you not mention who delivered it. I’d gone to say goodbye to her. I am so ashamed.’ He shrugged. ‘And strangely relieved. My fever has passed.’

Owen, Hempe, and Crispin sat at their usual table, but tonight it was crowded, with Alfred, Jasper, Hal, Martin – and Denis. He had brought word that Bertram was accepting food and drink, and Martin had invited him to join them at the tavern. ‘And why not?’ Martin had said. ‘Our love for Ambrose is a bond.’

Mary fluttered around them, keeping their tankards filled, though she did not lack other customers. It had been a fortnight since the eventful day. Bess had opened the inn to more lodgers and the room was full of regulars and travelers.

And suddenly the moment they had all come to witness. Tom appeared in the doorway outside his bedchamber, dressed as if ready to resume work, and gazed out at the crowd with a look of pure delight. Hands on hips, Bess stood just behind him, grinning like a cat who stole the cream. A hush came over the room as people nudged each other and pointed. And then the cheering began.

‘Our Tom! Our Tom! Our Tom!’

He stepped into the room waving them silent. It took a few moments as he worked his way toward Owen’s table, but at last the room quieted.

‘I’m just going to have an ale with the men who saved my life, if you don’t mind,’ he said loudly, nudging Jasper over so that he could sit at the end of the bench. As soon as Bess placed a tankard in front of Tom he lifted it and said, ‘Cheers to all of you at this table. Tonight’s drinks are on the house.’

It was all the silence he was going to enjoy. Already the cheers had resumed and people hurried over to thump Tom’s back and wish him well. Owen took a deep breath and settled back. The world had been righted once more. Tom was back where he belonged. He lifted his tankard and toasted Tom and the team who had helped him save his friend.

The tavern closed for the night, and Mary, Tupper, and the lodgers in their chambers, Bess and Tom enjoyed small cups of brandywine as they sat in bed.

‘Don’t you ever leave me again, Tom Merchet.’

‘Never again.’ Tom looked round the room. ‘It is a good life.’ He pulled her close and kissed her. ‘We lost our Maggie, our beautiful girl, and that was the lowest point. But otherwise … we’ve been blessed.’

‘We have. Blessed with the tavern and how well it’s done, blessed with friends and family.’ Bess nestled her head on Tom’s shoulder. ‘But this is best of all.’

He turned to her, lifting her chin. ‘My beloved Bess.’ He kissed her then, long, passionately.