Candace Robb: The Guilt of Innocents

The near drowning and a priest and schoolmaster suspected by the gossips of attempted murder brought many to the York Tavern that evening. Bess’s husband Tom growled about her long absence when she returned from Lucie’s house.

‘You’d be more than a little angry if I’d disappeared just as half the city arrived thirsty and cranky with frostbitten fingers and toes,’ he grumbled.

She hugged him, and as she stepped back noted his bemused expression. A hug was the last thing he’d expected from her. She was suddenly poignantly aware of his sagging jowls and swollen eyelids and thanked God he came from a long-lived family.

‘The fire’s smoking,’ she said. ‘See to that while I fill tankards.’

He nodded and pushed a pitcher towards her. ‘It’s plain I’ll be brewing again this week.’

Bess noticed a pair she knew to be abbey bargemen in the corner and made her way towards them in the hope they might be in a mood to talk. Heads bowed, they seemed like two monks in church this evening, quiet and solemn-faced.

‘Have you news of the pilot?’ she asked as she stood over them unnoticed, another clue to their mood.

Bart shook his shaggy head, and as he raised his tankard for a refill he surprised Bess with such a grief-stricken look that she almost spilled some of Tom’s best ale.

‘You are good friends with the man who almost drowned?’

‘My wife and I are godparents of his lasses,’ he said. ‘I was the one to tell his good wife of the accident. I had to repeat it because she just couldn’t believe what I was saying, and then she screamed and frightened the little ones. I pray he recovers. I’ve got a knot in my belly that all the ale in York won’t loosen.’ He took a long drink.

It wouldn’t be for lack of trying, Bess thought as she made sympathetic noises.

‘Had he been but a little later returning today it wouldn’t have happened,’ said the other.

‘Aye.’ Bart nodded. ‘Hal’s right. He came just before those cursed scholars. Pampered pets.’

Hal winced at his friend’s words. ‘I don’t think we can really blame them,’ he said. ‘Drogo didn’t look right when he walked up to me. He was rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t see clear. I think there was blood on his hands. He asked me for some water. By the time I fetched it, he was in the river.’ He crossed himself.

‘Blood on his hands?’ Bess thought that significant. ‘But you aren’t certain?’

Hal held up his own hands. ‘We can never get off all the pitch or the river filth.’

It looked as if all the creases on his hands were picked out in black, as well as the greater part of the joints. ‘I see,’ said Bess.

‘Those scholars are still the ones pushed him in,’ Bart growled.

‘We don’t know that,’ Hal maintained. ‘If Drogo was sickening, a nudge might have sent him in, the barges were rocking so with all the folk moving about. I’m not easy blaming the lads.’

Bart grunted.

‘What if someone in the city is after bargemen, and not just Drogo?’ Hal added, frowning down at his tankard, then up at Bart.

‘Why would that be?’ Bess asked.

Hal shrugged. ‘Why Drogo?’

Bart snorted. ‘That’s what makes it plain the scholars did it. They’re angry about his keeping the scrip. He was a fool to do that. Why would he think the lad carried anything of worth in it?’

‘Because he carried it with him that day?’ The words were out before Bess knew it. But if she did say so herself, it was unusual for a lad to go about wearing a scrip.

Hal held her gaze. ‘I’d not thought of that. But now you mention it, it is odd.’

‘If I have any more thoughts, I’ll let you know,’ said Bess. She leaned down to Hal and added in a low voice, ‘Watch your friend. I want no rowdiness tonight. Folk need to feel safe here.’

‘I’ll clear him out soon,’ Hal promised. ‘He’ll not wake happy as it is.’

As Bess moved on she tucked away the fact that Drogo had been thirsty and perhaps bleeding already when he’d arrived at the staithe, and the question of what Hubert de Weston had carried in his scrip. She could not follow the idea now for she needed full use of her wits to keep tab of how much of what folk were eating and drinking. Tragedy was good for business, as ever.

A man moved out from the shadows, blocking Owen’s access to the abbey infirmary. Owen cursed silently; when he’d entered the abbey grounds through the postern gate he’d thought he was alone. Drawing out his dagger — for it might be the would-be murderer intent on finishing his work, Owen called out, ‘Who goes there?’

The man moved closer so that Owen could see his hawk-nosed face. ‘It’s George Hempe.’

Relieved, Owen said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Hempe was a city bailiff, and the very one Owen would have sent for. He’d disliked Hempe until they had been thrown together in an investigation the previous year and he’d learned that the man’s intentions were good despite his stubborn and brusque manner, that he earnestly wished to bring criminals to justice. Bailiffs usually saw their duties as keeping the immediate peace, not preventing future trouble. Hempe was not so short-sighted.

‘Have you seen the pilot?’ Owen asked.

‘I had a glimpse of him as they carried him into the abbey grounds. But that is all. I’m not as welcome in here as you are. I can tell you he looked near death.’

‘How could you not be welcome? Were you not sent for?’

Hempe laughed. ‘I was, yes, but as soon as he saw me Abbot Campian made certain I understood that the man had fallen from the abbey staithe, not the city staithe, though it was possible he’d been attacked in the city. I’d been called upon to keep the peace among the city folk, not to interfere in abbey concerns. He sent for you as well?’

‘Yes. I might have avoided it, but my son Jasper was in the crowd of scholars at the staithe.’

‘Has Jasper an explanation of what happened?’

Owen was shaking his head as they came upon the outcast of the evening, Nicholas Ferriby.

‘Captain Archer, Master Bailiff, I must speak with you.’ The schoolmaster’s deep voice trembled. ‘I am condemned of a crime that did not happen.’

‘Calm yourself,’ said Owen. ‘From what I’ve heard you did nothing wrong tonight.’

‘But the crowd out on Marygate,’ Nicholas gestured towards the abbey gate, ‘they accused me. Their voices were so angry. I wasn’t at the barges, Captain. I don’t know why they would even connect me with that man.’ He paused to catch his breath.

‘You are safe here in the abbey grounds,’ said Hempe.

Owen was impatient to move on, but he could imagine how unsettled the man must feel. ‘Some quiet prayer in the abbey church will calm you, Master Nicholas. Now I fear I must leave you. I’ve been summoned to the infirmary.’

‘Why?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To see Drogo’s wounds.’

‘The wounds — they complicate the story,’ said Hempe, considering Master Nicholas. ‘You swear you had not been seen with Drogo earlier in the afternoon?’

‘I swear!’ Nicholas cried, then groaned. ‘Even you?’

‘You are not in danger here,’ said Owen, shaking his head at Hempe to quiet him. He had no time to calm the schoolmaster. ‘Abide in the hospitium tonight, Master Nicholas.’

‘By morning the crowd will have forgotten you,’ said Hempe.

‘I pray you are right,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what if the man dies?’

‘Then we have much work to do,’ said Owen. ‘I must pass now.’

The schoolmaster stepped aside. ‘I shall go pray for his recovery.’