Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

Owen crossed the hall from Wykeham’s chamber. He saw through the windows that it was already mid-afternoon and cursed at how much of the day was gone and he no closer to understanding what had happened at the bishop’s house last night than he had been at dawn. That records had been stored in the undercroft might prove significant, but one fact seemed little reward for his efforts. Avoiding the kitchen, he stepped out on to the long porch connecting the two wings.

Wykeham stood opposite him just inside the doorway of the great hall, tapping a slow rhythm with long, slender fingers against the door frame. He was looking off to his side, speaking to someone within. Owen hesitated, thinking to retreat — but he was too slow.

Wykeham noticed him and regarded him with his hooded eyes. ‘Captain Archer, I would speak with you.’

Resigning himself, Owen joined the bishop and accompanied him into the great hall. The Fitzbaldrics were nowhere to be seen, although the archbishop’s servants were setting up a table for a meal at this odd mid-afternoon hour. It must be for the newly arrived guests. At least that would cut short his meeting with Wykeham.

Wykeham drew Owen aside to a bench beneath the high south windows. The brief autumn sunlight had given way to leaden clouds. If the storm had come last night, might Cisotta have stayed at home, out of danger? The memory of Cisotta’s corpse haunted Owen as he took a seat. His investigation had provided distance from her grisly image, as he had focused on others’ expressions, tones of voice, gestures that might reveal lies, things left unspoken. But now, in this quiet moment, the horror of the deed flooded back and rendered him mute.

‘Captain, are you unwell?’

Wykeham was leaning towards Owen, concern creasing his brow.

‘I had little sleep last night,’ Owen managed.

‘You lost all colour for a moment.’ Wykeham called to a servant to bring wine.

‘If it is for me, I would prefer ale.’

Wykeham nodded to the servant, who bowed and hurried off. ‘You must dine with the Fitzbaldrics.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘There will be plenty.’

The prospect of sitting at the table with those whom Owen must question dulled any hunger he might have had. ‘Thank you. But I mean to talk to as many people as possible while their memories are clear.’

‘Of course.’ Wykeham sat back, still watching Owen closely. ‘Just then, when you paled, of what were you thinking?’

‘Of Cisotta, what she suffered.’

Wykeham held his eye a little longer, then shifted his gaze to the window. ‘May God give her peace and may the Blessed Mother watch over her family.’ He crossed himself.

Owen did likewise.

‘I had not thought how painful this might be for you,’ said Wykeham, ‘that you might know the woman.’

‘A month past she was a frequent visitor in my house, nursing my wife through a difficult time — ’ Owen checked himself. The bishop did not care about the details of his life, nor did Owen truly wish to share them. He took the cup offered by a servant, paused for a long drink, closed his eyes as it went down.

‘It was a most horrible crime,’ Wykeham said in a quiet voice. He shifted in his seat, shook out a silken arm to drape the dropped sleeve smoothly, but said nothing else until Owen set his cup aside. ‘Fitzbaldric questioned some of Mistress Digby’s methods.’

‘Had she accompanied my old lord’s army in France, we would have lost far fewer men.’

‘That is where you lost the sight in your eye, I believe?’

Owen’s scarred eye prickled — he did not like the way Wykeham looked at him, as if weighing what he knew of him. ‘Normandy, My Lord Bishop.’ Where Owain Lawgoch is, is that what Wykeham is thinking behind that courteous mask?

Lawgoch, a mercenary fighting for the French king, sought to prove himself truly the heir of his great-uncle, Llywelyn the Last, by leading a Welsh rebellion against English rule. It was Owen’s brief flirtation with the rebellion while in Wales that he wished to hide from Thoresby.

Lucie’s hands felt strange, almost numb, as she pressed them to the pain above her groin and looked up and down the street, searching for the guards. Davygate had quieted in the heat of the afternoon, though many people had found tasks they could do while sitting in their open doorways, enjoying the warm weather while they worked. Neighbours shifted on their stools and glanced her way. Suddenly she felt an arm round her. Her heart skipped a beat even though the touch was too gentle to be Eudo’s.

‘Mistress, what is amiss?’ Kate asked. ‘Are you injured?’

‘Where are the children?’ Lucie hurried back towards the house.

Kate followed her. ‘In the hall. Why?’

Rushing inside, Lucie found Hugh sleeping on a mat, his fiery hair stirring in a gentle breeze from the garden window. Gwenllian sat beside him, resting her back against the wall, a slate on her lap.

‘Take them up to the solar, Kate. Where is my aunt?’

‘Tidying the kitchen. I pray you, Mistress, tell me what frights you so.’

‘Cisotta’s husband was in the shop looking for Poins. He is in a terrible rage. He started for the back of the shop. I think he means to come to the house.’

‘He will find only Dame Phillippa in the kitchen, Mistress. His Grace has already sent for Poins and Mistress Digby.’

And the guards had thought their duty done, damn them . Lucie shook her head as Kate began to explain. ‘There is no time. Take the little ones up. I shall send my aunt after you.’

Lucie found the kitchen door open. Within, Phillippa was raking up the soiled rushes. Unaware of Lucie’s presence, she eased herself down with difficulty, reached for a basket, dragging it towards her and began to scoop the pile of rushes into it.

Lucie crouched down to help her aunt, cursing herself for bringing this danger on her family. She tried to keep her voice level as she said, ‘This work is too dusty for you, Aunt, and the day much too warm for such exertion. The children have gone to the solar to nap. That is what you should do.’

Phillippa patted her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. ‘It is warm. How are Emma and her lovely boys?’

Lucie must get her out of the kitchen. ‘Where is your walking cane?’

‘Over there, by the table. It is of little use while I … Merciful Mother, you gave me a start!’

Eudo was in the doorway, his short, stocky mass blocking the light. He had lost his hat and his greasy hair stuck out in coarse tufts. His red eyes and slumped shoulders reminded Lucie of the grief from which rose his anger. ‘I mean your family no harm, Mistress Wilton. I want the man who murdered my wife.’

‘He is not here,’ Lucie said, fearing that he would hear the tremor in her voice if she said more.

Jasper appeared behind Eudo, hands outstretched. The tawyer sensed him and rushed towards Lucie. Desperate for anything that might stop him without injury, she took up the bucket of water sitting ready for Phillippa’s scrubbing and tossed it on him. As the tawyer sputtered and stumbled, Jasper grabbed his middle, pinning his arms to his sides. But anger and grief gave the man such strength that he broke away, knocking Lucie to one side, and disappeared through the door to the garden.

Jasper knelt to her.

‘I am not injured,’ she assured him. It was Eudo who needed comforting and her panic had merely fuelled his rage, making him more dangerous to himself. ‘Where did the guards take Magda and Poins, Aunt?’

‘To the archbishop’s palace.’

Thank heaven. There were surely guards at the palace. Even so, ‘Go, Jasper,’ she said. ‘Warn them!’