Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

‘You are most helpfully observant,’ said Owen. ‘How did they respond to Eudo the tawyer?’

Julia looked to her husband.

‘Godwin thought it best simply to take him to the shed, let him see for himself whether it was his wife,’ said Robert.

‘We held Adeline back. She feared the tawyer would attack Godwin. He was coarse with drink, but I assured her that he had too many witnesses to be such a fool, and that Godwin was no weakling, he could protect himself.’ Julia had grown uncomfortable, toying with a ring on one finger, avoiding eye contact. ‘It was kind of him to take the tawyer. Godwin Fitzbaldric is a good man.’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Julia is full of remorse for how the two households parted.’

‘I was thinking of the children.’ Her eyes pleaded for understanding.

‘So, too, was I when I told Master Fitzbaldric that we could not keep Poins in our home.’

‘Oh yes.’

Owen had nothing else to ask at the moment. Robert escorted him to the yard, showed him the tumbled wall, which would have been an easy climb, probably the way the intruder had arrived as well.

Owen was glad to be away from the Dales. Their ease with one another had brought home to him how he and Lucie had drifted apart.

The counter at the front of Eudo’s shop was closed, the door shut. Overhead, the tawyer’s sign creaked in the breeze. Somewhere further down the street a door or shutter banged in an uneven rhythm. Lucie turned down the alley towards the kitchen entrance, giving a cry when she stumbled over a man in the archbishop’s livery sitting with his back against the wall, dozing.

‘Who goes there?’ he called out as he scrambled to his feet.

‘Mistress Wilton. I have come to help Eudo ready the children for the funeral.’

‘The captain will have my hide for sleeping,’ the young man said.

Lucie did not know him. ‘I, too, should find it difficult to stay awake in a dark alley. Perhaps you would fare better standing where you were posted, out in Patrick Pool.’

‘Aye, mistress,’ he mumbled, lowering his gaze to the ground.

It was not her habit to reprimand Owen’s men, but her abandonment yesterday still rankled. Ignoring the young man’s exclamation as he stepped out into the windy street, Lucie hurried on down the alleyway, the sound of her footsteps echoing between the two buildings. The quiet unnerved her. She was glad to hear a child’s petulant wail as she stepped into the kitchen yard, a sound of normality.

Eudo and a guard had their eyes trained on the alley as Lucie appeared.

The guard sheathed his knife. ‘Mistress Wilton,’ he said, bobbing his head.

‘Good-day to you, Mistress Wilton,’ said Eudo. He had shaved and combed his thinning hair, and wore his best tunic and leggings. A pair of boots with no creases or scuffs in the polished leather were either new or had been oiled for the occasion.

The guard nodded to her.

‘I have come to help with the children,’ Lucie explained.

‘Goodwife Claire is helping Anna,’ Eudo growled. ‘Not a moment to ourselves, folk inside, outside.’

It was no mystery why the tawyer had trouble finding support in the guild with such outbursts when offered help.

But it was the guard who said so. ‘You should be grateful that neighbours are coming to your aid, Master Tawyer. They might have shunned you after your folly yesterday.’

‘Are you my protector or my warden?’ Eudo demanded.

The guard shrugged and turned away.

‘Come within, Mistress Wilton, I meant nothing by my complaint,’ said Eudo. ‘I can hear Anna and the goodwife struggling with the lads.’

What Lucie heard most keenly was Anna’s cough. She stepped inside, pausing to adjust to the dimness, then crouched to catch the youngest who was careening towards her, one leg kneeling in a low, wobbly wheeled cart, the other pushing alongside. He saw her at the last moment and tried to brake, but the rushes slipped beneath his bare foot. The impact almost knocked Lucie backwards. She lifted him by his skinny shoulders and set him on his feet. He felt feverish and his breath indicated a sick stomach.

‘Will!’ The shout came from a woman who held tight to a naked boy squirming to escape. Lucie thought it was Henry, though he and Ned looked much alike. ‘Oh, Mistress Wilton, I am sorry.’

Anna had run to grab little Will. ‘Bad boy, you almost knocked Mistress Wilton over.’

The boy screwed up his face and stuck a fist in his mouth.

‘He did not hurt me,’ Lucie assured Anna and the goodwife. She bent to hug the girl. ‘I am sorry about your mother.’ It was not the thing one might say to most children, but Anna was a grave girl, old before her time. Still, Lucie was glad the din of the other boys hid the tremor in her voice.

‘I keep hoping it was a mistake, it wasn’t Ma in the fire, she’s just away at a birthing, maybe outside the city.’ Anna smoothed her brother’s hair. ‘He’s in a temper,’ she said. ‘Because of his fever he is going to Goodwife Claire’s for the day.’

‘But the rest of you are going to St Sampson’s?’

Anna nodded. ‘Pa is not pleased. He says we’ll embarrass him.’

No more than he does himself . ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Would you fuss over Will while Mistress Claire and I dress Henry and Ned? Pa just shouts at Will and makes him worse.’

Lucie tested the boy’s weight, judged him light enough for her to carry — he was much smaller than Hugh, who was about his age. ‘Go on, see to the others.’

Will held himself stiff in her arms, watching her with an uneasiness that could quickly turn to tears. She walked over to the dresser with him, where a lamp glowed warmly, and searched for something to entertain him. The shelves were full of Cisotta’s jars and bottles, but it was a thin string that she chose. Setting him down while she drew a stool over, she then lifted him up to sit astride it and sat facing him, knotting the string and stretching it between her hands. ‘Do you know any string games, Will?’

Still with one fist in his mouth, he shook his head.

Though he mastered none of the games it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Soon Mistress Claire came to scoop him up. ‘Anna is dressing. I shall take little Will next door. Come, Will,’ she cooed.

The boy shoved his fist into his mouth once more.

Lucie tidied the dresser while she waited for Anna. The jars and bottles lined up on the main shelf had no markings on them; though she had known Cisotta could not read, she had expected some symbols or marks. Opening them at random, she found rosemary, a powder mixture with valerian root as the strongest scent, rue, a jar of feathers, a bottle of lavender oil, a jar with a small amount of blood at the bottom, a tray of stones. She moved on to the other items on the dresser. A scale was tucked on a higher shelf, along with small rolls of cloth tied with laces and strings. Lucie did not fuss with them. A dozen or more small boards tied together caught her eye. Untying them, she found pressed flowers, hairs, what looked like fingernails. She pressed them back together and tied them, wanting no part of Cisotta’s charms. The boards would not slide back where she had found them. Pulling the bench over, she climbed up to inspect the obstruction. Tucked at the back of the shelf was a delicate pair of gloves, made of butter-soft leather. Stepping down from the stool, Lucie held the gloves towards the lamplight. Tooled leather, with jet beads on the outer wrist of each and, tracing some of the tooling, they seemed too fine for Cisotta.

‘I should give them to Papa, I guess.’

Lucie started. ‘These are your father’s work?’

Anna shook her head. ‘Ma said they were a surprise for Papa, a pattern he could copy.’ Her eyes were on the gloves.