Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

Owen had already settled on the bench and had drawn the cloth from the tray. The aroma of spiced meat tempted him to try that first, but with his mouth as dry as it was the food would choke him. He took a good long drink of ale. ‘Tom Merchet’s ale?’ he asked, picking up the pasty.

‘Aye. His Grace trades brandywine for ale from the York Tavern. Mistress Merchet is a stubborn bargainer.’ She watched him take a bite, chew. ‘How is that, then? Will that hold you until you can sit down to a decent meal?’

‘It will indeed.’

‘Good.’ Maeve bent once more to the oven, wielding a paddle with long-accustomed skill.

Owen felt the food improving his mood. He washed the pasty down with the rest of the ale. ‘How long has the bishop been in the kitchen?’ he asked as he rose and brushed off the crumbs.

Maeve stood with hands on her hips, considering. ‘Long enough for the bread to rise a goodly amount.’

Owen felt a lethargy in his limbs as he walked across the yard to the kitchen door. The afternoon was so warm that sweat trickled down through his hair and his clothes stuck to him. He guessed by the damp heat and the utter stillness of the air that a storm was coming. He was grateful to enter the coolness of the kitchen. Across the room, plain wattle screens enclosed a corner just beyond the one window. He crossed over the rush-strewn floor and peered round the screens. Dressed in his clerical gown, his bejewelled hands pressed to his knees, Wykeham perched at the edge of a stool, straining to watch Magda, who knelt on a stool beside Poins, applying the tanning unguent to a raw area on the man’s right thigh. Poins flinched, then struggled to lift his head to see what Magda was doing. The bandage wrapped round his head and the swelling of his face made it impossible for Owen to interpret the man’s expression.

‘I understand that silver filings in an unguent speed the healing,’ said Wykeham.

‘Many claim that is so, but Magda uses no filings in wounds. They are too harsh.’

‘They scour the flesh, perhaps? It would seem preferable to maggots.’

‘Maggots attack only the dead flesh.’

Their tones were calm, conversational.

‘If the maggots have consumed the dead flesh,’ Wykeham said, ‘what need have you of the unguent?’

‘The salve cleans the wound and protects it while new skin is growing.’ Magda glanced round at Owen. ‘Hast thou come to enquire after thy houseguest?’

Wykeham swivelled, noted Owen and nodded.

Owen stepped past the screens and bowed to Wykeham. ‘My Lord.’

‘Captain Archer.’

Owen joined Magda. ‘I did wonder at the haste with which you removed Poins. I see he wakes.’

Poins lowered his head to the pillow and turned away from them.

‘Has he spoken?’ Owen asked.

‘He tried when he first woke. The pain stopped him.’ Magda finished smoothing the salve, stepped back to consider her work. ‘This is Owen Archer, the good man who gave thee shelter last night, Poins,’ she said.

The patient twisted his head back to face them and grunted. His eyelids were heavy with salve, as were his lips.

‘You are fortunate to have the Riverwoman watching over you,’ Owen said.

Poins glanced at Magda, then over in the vicinity of the bishop.

Of Magda, Owen asked, ‘Do you have all you need?’

‘Aye. Go now, he must rest and thou hast much to do.’

Wykeham rose. ‘I shall walk with you, Captain.’

The crinkles round Magda’s eyes suggested laughter as she watched them depart.

‘She is a singular woman,’ Wykeham said as they entered the screens passage to Thoresby’s hall. ‘Confident of her skill, and rightly so, I am told, yet lacking all understanding of whence comes her gift. That troubles me.’ He said nothing more for a few paces, then, ‘Yet, having met her and observed her at work, I would not cast her out.’

‘I am glad you recognize her worth.’

Wykeham made a sound in his throat. ‘Her worth is yet to be proved.’

They paused by a door open to the garden. Wykeham stepped out and glanced around. ‘Such an October day is rare this far north, is it not?’

Owen thought it an odd question. The bishop had possessed prebends in both Beverley and York, and not so long ago — he should know the weather in the shire. It revealed how seldom Wykeham had resided in either minster close.

‘We treasure these last days, My Lord, but they are not so rare. Sometimes we are blessed with a mild, dry autumn through Martinmas.’

Wykeham tucked in his chin, studied the gravel path. ‘Who is to be first in your questioning, Captain?’

‘I think it best to allow the Fitzbaldrics time to settle themselves, so I would begin with your clerks.’ Owen had only just decided that as they departed the kitchen.

Wykeham nodded. ‘I shall come with you.’

When a page opened wide the bishop’s chamber door, the clerk Alain hastened to greet his master and bowed Owen in. Though Alain wore merely the bishop’s livery, he still managed an air of elegance.

Guy rose from a table, setting his pen aside. He was not so elegant as his fellow, his gown bunching about his round middle, his hands stained with ink. He had lank, colourless hair, tiny, widely spaced eyes, a flat, broad nose.

After making his obeisance to Wykeham he bowed to Owen. ‘Captain. We have awaited your visit.’

The bishop turned to Owen. ‘My men will be more forthcoming in my absence. I leave you to them.’ As the page opened the door, Wykeham took a few steps and then paused, regarding Guy, then Alain. ‘Tell him all you know,’ he commanded. ‘Captain Archer has a reputation for bringing the truth to light. You have nothing to gain by dissembling with him.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ Guy said.

Alain bowed.

‘If you would not mind, Captain,’ Guy said as the page closed the door, ‘it will take but a moment for me to complete this letter.’

Owen nodded to him.

The guest chamber given over to Wykeham was a large room partitioned with carved wooden screens. The carving echoed the patterns in the window tracery above. The bishop’s bedchamber with a small altar for prayer was furthest from the door. The section in which Owen stood was furnished with several tables, benches, a comfortable chair for the bishop and several chests. A tapestry depicting the boy Jesus with the elders in the temple hung on the wall facing the table at which Guy worked.

Owen settled in the comfortable chair.

Alain arranged himself on a bench near the table. He was a handsome man, sharp blue eyes, fair hair cut neatly about his ears and fringing his arched brows. Of moderate height, he was slender and straight-backed. He had long-fingered, delicate hands, with which he now smoothed the folds of his gown. According to Thoresby, the bishop had engaged Alain as a favour to his family, to rescue him from the clutches of a scheming woman who would have ruined his name.

After a final scratch of his pen, Guy put it aside, sprinkled sand on the parchment, shook it, then leaned away from the table to blow. ‘I have just finished.’ He shifted his stool to face away from the table, inclined his head towards Owen. ‘Captain.’

‘You have both heard of this morning’s discovery, that the woman who died in the undercroft was not of the Fitzbaldric household?’

Guy nodded.

‘We have,’ Alain said, with a touch of irritation in his tone. ‘A woman of questionable character, I understand.’

‘Cisotta attended my wife during a recent illness. She will be missed.’

Alain dipped his head.

‘My comrade’s ill humor is his weakness,’ Guy said. ‘He means nothing by it.’

‘Are you here to play cat and mouse with us, Captain?’ Alain had reached back to the table for Guy’s penknife and now began to clean his nails with it.