Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

While Jasper dispensed, Lucie mixed valerian root, fennel seed — for Emma had a tender stomach — crushed lemon balm and mint and, having tucked them in the jar, stoppered it.

‘We need sweet vinegar and barley sugar to make more of the throat physick,’ Jasper said as Lucie picked up the jar and headed for the workroom.

‘And before the day is out,’ she agreed. ‘But we have the rest?’

‘Steeped hock seeds and flowers, gum Arabic, dragagantum and quince seeds, aye.’

Something simpler might do for those not coughing, but the best remedies for the throat contained iris or violet vinegar and barley sugar. She had never allowed her supply of them to get so low.

‘I shall stop at the market after I take this to the Ferribys,’ she promised. No doubt the day after a fire the ingredients would be most dear, but she had no choice.

‘I could take that to them.’

‘I wish to see Emma. Do you mind so much, managing the shop by yourself?’

She could tell by the look on his face that he minded a little, but he assured her that he was content.

Quickly she sealed the jar and departed for Emma’s house, hoping to set her thoughts in order as she walked to Hosier Lane. But on the street she found little peace in which to think. It seemed as if the entire population of York was abroad, exchanging tales of the fire the previous night. By the time she had made her way down Coney Street to Ousegate she had learned that the gossips, rather than talking of the good Cisotta had done, were listing her frivolous outfits, the men with whom she had flirted, the midwives she had stepped over to find work, how much she had charged for a birth when others did the work expecting nothing and, worst of all, the charms she had woven for profit.

By the time Lucie reached Emma’s house she felt confident that she could rummage for information without sounding unnatural — her fury over the wholesale condemnation of Cisotta would cover any tension she might display.

The Ferriby house commanded Hosier Lane just beyond Pavement. Peter Ferriby was a merchant trading in a wide assortment of profitable goods, as his father had done before him, and the L-shaped house rose two storeys, gaily painted in yellow and red, a narrow end to the street with a wing jutting out behind the warehouse that shared the street end. She ducked through an archway which led into a small courtyard between the house and the warehouse and took a moment to appreciate the peace after her walk. She knocked only once on the door before Emma opened it. Lucie realized she must have been visible from within. ‘I was enjoying your courtyard.’

‘You may not wish to come in,’ Emma said beneath her breath. ‘Mother is in a fury.’

That was not unusual for Lady Pagnell. ‘We are a pair, then,’ Lucie said. ‘But what is amiss? Is it her anger with the bishop? I thought they were about to come to a settlement.’

Emma winced. ‘I thought so, too. But it is anyone’s guess how long it will now be delayed. Peter heard this morning that some people are suggesting we are behind the fire at the bishop’s house, that we did it in revenge for Wykeham’s part in Father’s death.’

‘Lady Pagnell heard this?’

‘Peter can be such a fool — he told me of this in her presence.’

‘Oh, Emma, surely no one believes it?’

‘Folk will believe what they like,’ Lady Pagnell said loudly from somewhere within the house — what keen hearing the woman had — ‘and the more who suffer for it the tastier it is. But you do not need to keep Mistress Wilton standing in the courtyard, Emma.’

Emma clutched her elbows with her stubby-fingered hands. ‘Mother is my bane,’ she said more quietly. ‘But enough of her. I can guess what you are angry about. Folk are talking of nothing else this morning. What on earth was Cisotta doing at the Fitzbaldric house?’

‘So far we do not know.’

‘Well, come in, do,’ Emma said in a louder voice, stepping back, her elegant green wool gown moving to show the pale-yellow undershift. ‘You must tell me all about last night and the injured servant you have taken in.’

Lucie glanced down at her simple workaday blue gown, hoping she had not stained it while assisting Magda with Poins, or working in the shop. There was a tear at the edge of her left sleeve that she had not noticed before, a small spot on the skirt that might be blood and her hem needed a good brushing. She and Emma were both daughters of knights, but Lucie did not fuss with her appearance on workdays.

Lady Pagnell stood beneath a window, leaning over a large piece of embroidery in a frame, stabbing at it as if taking out her anger on the cloth. Though short like her daughter, she managed to be an imposing presence in the high-ceilinged hall. She wore a dark-purple gown with a matching veil over a white wimple and bib, a veil much crimped and curled and stiffened into an imposing square façade over her face. Murmuring something polite at Lucie’s greeting, she feigned absorption in her needlework, as if her earlier outburst had never occurred.

At a table further back in the hall Emma’s boys, Ivo and John, sat with their tutor, Edgar, writing on wax tablets as he dictated. Matthew, the Pagnell steward, sat further down the table with rolled parchments, tally sticks, and a ledger spread out before him. He did not look up at her entry, but seemed to bend his head even closer to his work. Lucie was curious about him after Emma’s complaints regarding his relationship with Lady Pagnell. She had met him only once before.

‘Mother has frightened the boys, talking of the rumours about our family with such anger, telling them they will be shunned by all.’

Since the tutor had paused in his lesson, Lucie felt free to offer a greeting to the boys. She remembered how painful it had been to be ostracized as a child. After the death of her mother, Lucie had been sent off to St Clement Nunnery where the sisters had watched her for signs of the weak morals they had ascribed to her mother, who had had a lover. The memory of that brought Lucie back to Cisotta and the reputation that was blinding people to the tragedy of her death.

The tow-headed boys greeted her with solemn courtesy. She had expected them to burst with questions about the fire, the rumours — they were intelligent and energetic. But after a brief acknowledgement of her presence, they both returned to their work.

While Emma drew up a bench so that they might sit away from the others and near the fire, Lucie took the jar from her scrip and set it on a small table. ‘This should help you sleep.’

Emma glanced towards her mother, then shook her head slightly. ‘She does not approve,’ she whispered.

But it was too late. ‘What is that, Emma? Are you in need of a physick? You might have said something to me. Is it for digestion?’

‘If you must take part in our conversation, I pray you, join us, so you do not disturb the boys at their lessons.’ Emma had flushed scarlet. ‘Sometimes I think Mother has no sense,’ she whispered to Lucie.

‘I am busy with my embroidery,’ said Lady Pagnell. ‘Come, sit by me. I so seldom have a chance to see you, Lucie. There was no time to talk at the minster the other day. At least let me thank you for attending Sir Ranulf’s mass.’

‘My father counted Sir Ranulf a good friend, Lady Pagnell, and I remember his kindnesses.’

An opportunity to speak with both Lady Pagnell and Emma was more to Lucie’s purpose than sequestering herself with her friend, though she prayed for patience in dealing with the two of them. She did not understand their conflict, but she understood that her impatience stemmed from envy. Neither Lady Pagnell nor Emma appreciated what they had in each other. Lucie did not even have a mother-in-law with whom to contend.