Candace Robb - The Guilt of Innocents

‘And I’ll see that the crowd has dispersed,’ said Hempe.

Inside the warmly lit infirmary, Owen found Brother Henry bent over an ailing monk, and he left him in peace for a moment. Scanning the room for Drogo, he was startled by memories. The hanging herbs, tidy rows of pallets, indeed the smell of the room reminded him of many visits with Brother Wulfstan. Owen had seldom come here since his friend’s death three years earlier. Brother Henry was capable, but not gifted like his predecessor; neither Lucie nor Owen came to him for advice.

‘Drogo lies over near the brazier,’ Henry softly called out.

Owen pulled himself back into the present and noticed the man now, or the shape of him beneath the blanket. Henry joined him.

‘He is dead?’ Owen asked.

Henry nodded and then crossed himself. ‘He died just a little while ago. I waited to move him to a more public place until you’d seen him.’

‘Did he ever wake?’

‘No. He made mewling sounds towards the end, as if in pain but too weak to cry out.’

‘That doesn’t sound like drowning,’ Owen said. ‘But a poisoned blade — that is no sudden quarrel but deliberate murder.’

Henry bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘The devil is loose in the city.’

‘The method is only too human,’ said Owen. ‘Let me see him.’

Henry uncovered Drogo’s head, then drew back the blanket to expose his right hand. The skin on his face already looked waxy and slightly grey, though around the cuts it was much darker and there was a trace of crust that did not look like a scab. It was too small a sample for either Owen or Lucie to detect the presence of poison, too little to smell or taste.

‘He tried to protect his face,’ Owen noted.

Henry nodded. ‘That is what I thought. The slits must have stung, but I wouldn’t think they were terribly painful. I suppose that’s why he went to the barges and not home to clean the wounds. What do you think?’

‘I think his attacker was confident of the poison. Depending on what it was, Drogo might have sought relief in the river as the pain worsened.’

‘May God grant him peace,’ said Henry.

Owen released Drogo’s hand. He crossed himself and said a prayer for the pilot’s soul. ‘Did you know him?’

Henry muted a sneeze with his hand. ‘A little. I’d spoken to him at the staithe now and then. He seemed a quiet man, though I heard murmurs tonight that he was too ready with his fists when drunk.’

‘That is not an unusual trait in our fellow men.’ Owen noticed lines of weariness encircling the infirmarian’s eyes and mouth despite his youth. ‘You found no other marks on his body?’

‘This bruise.’ Henry touched a faint discolouration high on the man’s left arm. ‘I thought it might be where his rescuer clutched him.’

It was the size of a man’s hand. ‘You may be right. Anything else?’

Henry shook his head as he tried to cover a yawn, but his exhaustion won.

Owen empathised. ‘You are already weary, and I expect you have a long evening ahead of you. I’ll not keep you long. Have you had much illness here?’

Henry shook his head as he tucked his hands in the opposite sleeves and moved away from Drogo. ‘I made a nettle draught for myself yesterday that was far too strong, and then I could not sleep.’

‘Ah, the healer has no time to be ill.’ Lucie often pushed herself far past signs of exhaustion.

‘I don’t think of it as illness,’ said Henry. ‘My sneezing upset my patients. I am accustomed to fits of sneezing after mixing some powders. The nettle quiets it. But I was distracted while measuring the draught. Brother Paolo was …’ His voice trailed off and he frowned down at his sandals. ‘He’s grown wicked in his illness.’ Glancing up at Owen, Henry blushed.

Owen tried to erase his grin. ‘Pleasuring himself?’

‘How did you guess?’ asked Henry as he averted his eyes.

Owen found it difficult not to laugh outright, imagining the monk distracted by a vigorously fluttering blanket, or startled by the old monk crying out in pleasure. ‘I’ve seen it in the camps, men comforting themselves, taking heart from a healthy response.’ Owen shrugged. ‘Of course it is more appropriate for soldiers than for monks.’

‘It is a sin regardless,’ Henry said sternly, his face very red.

Owen had forgotten Henry’s primness. ‘I pray you forgive me, Brother Henry. I should not have spoken so boldly.’ He searched for another topic, having no cause to offend the monk. ‘Warn those keeping vigil with the body that Drogo’s murderer is abroad. I am most concerned about his family, if he had one.’

Henry quickly regained his composure. ‘He had a wife and two daughters, I believe. They are waiting in the chapel with several of our brothers. I must get word to them of his death.’ He crossed himself. ‘I shall warn the others of the danger. Did you hear about Master Nicholas Ferriby being accused of the murder even before Drogo died?’

Owen nodded. ‘Jasper told me. Indeed, Master Nicholas accosted me outside your door. He fears for his life. The man’s death will be a blow to him.’

‘It was his misfortune to approach Drogo when he did, and someone saw a chance to stir them to violence. They will forget him tomorrow.’

‘You will offer him a bed for the night?’

‘I would have thought he’d bide with his brother William, but I suppose they are at odds. Abbot Campian suggested that he take refuge here, so I’ve no doubt he is arranging a bed for him. I would guess he’ll be off to Weston as soon as he’s able.’

‘That depends on whether he’s willing to repay the parents of his scholars. They have already paid a year’s fee.’ Owen had for Alisoun.

‘I’d not considered that,’ said Henry.

‘Before I go home to my dinner I must talk to the lads biding in the Clee.’

‘May God watch over you, Captain,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to meet the person who so subtly murdered the steersman.’

‘Keep me in your prayers, Brother Henry.’

Hempe waited without. ‘How is he?’

Owen shook his head, then crossed himself. ‘Dead of poison on the blade that cut him.’

Hempe cursed. ‘I spoke to one man who’d seen Drogo running from a tavern in Petergate late this afternoon. I’ll see what I can learn there. Let us meet in the York Tavern.’

Owen agreed, then headed out the abbey gate towards the Clee, where he was quite sure Master John, the schoolmaster of St Peters, would be with his scholars.

Light shone from the chinks in every shutter of the Clee, and spilled out as Dame Agnes opened the door to Owen’s knock, her snowy white cap glowing in the brightness. Young voices also spilled out into the night, as well as thuds and a dog barking. Dame Agnes, a pretty woman with a pious devotion to her charges, beamed at Owen.

‘Captain Archer, praise God that you are here. Several of my boys are eager to tell someone all they noticed at the barges today. I am so grateful it is you who is come to talk to them. You understand boys.’

She was also talkative. But he was heartened by her greeting.

‘Is there someplace I might talk to them one at a time, beginning with the older scholars?’ he asked. ‘After I’ve spoken to Master John and you.’

She smiled. ‘And how did you guess that Master John would be here?’

‘He would not leave the lads until he was certain they were all calmed,’ said Owen.

‘You know him well. These boys are blessed in their schoolmaster.’

‘And their matron,’ he added, falling into her rhythm.

As they spoke he’d noticed the youngest scholars joining her, crowding around her. Now she glanced around (for they were not much shorter than she was) and exclaimed, ‘Oh my boys, Captain Archer is going to help us discover the truth of what happened to the pilot this afternoon.’ Her expression, when she raised her eyes to Owen’s once more, was dramatically changed. ‘We must learn the truth.’ There was fear in her eyes, fear for her lads. She understood this was no mere schoolboys’ tussle.