Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

Lucie looked round for Owen and saw him striding away. Could his job never rest, even at the burial of a woman they had known so well? She returned to the mourning family, knelt to Anna and warmed the girl’s hands in her own.

As Owen made his way towards the palace he tried to push aside thoughts of Eudo’s emotion, his frightened boys, his daughter’s frail dignity. He was impatient with the need to spend the rest of the morning pandering to Wykeham and Thoresby when Cisotta’s death and the grief it had caused were so fresh in his mind. But Owen must tactfully tell them of the Ferriby boys’ role in the tile incident and reassure them that it had been an accident. No doubt Wykeham would refuse to accept the boys’ innocence, but Owen must try to convince him. As he mounted the steps of the palace porch he passed Alain descending. The clerk nodded to him and Owen had just begun to ask where he might find His Grace and the bishop when Wykeham called out to him from the doorway of the archbishop’s hall in a peremptory tone. Owen swore beneath his breath. Alain must have failed to convince his lord that those attending the funeral were mourning, not plotting against him. Owen began to think parliament right in blaming Wykeham for the setbacks in the war — the war that had cost him his eye. The bishop could not act for all his anxieties about his good name.

‘We must talk,’ Wykeham said.

‘My Lord Bishop …’

‘Now, Captain.’

As soon as Owen shut the door behind him Wykeham rounded on him and demanded, ‘When did you intend to tell me the truth about the falling tile?’

‘The truth?’ Owen muttered, wondering what Wykeham had heard.

‘The Ferriby boys.’

‘I have just come to tell you the truth of it.’ Damn the gossips .

‘Walter, the master mason’s assistant, came to the palace last evening,’ Wykeham said. ‘Why did I hear it from him first, Captain, why not you?’

Cursed mason . ‘I considered it important to get the tale from the lads before I came to you, My Lord. And to tell their parents.’

‘And then you went home?’

‘I have had much else to attend to. You were in no danger.’

‘In no danger?’ Wykeham’s voice crackled with anger. ‘They are the grandsons of Sir Ranulf Pagnell and his widow, that viperous woman who would suck me dry if she could. Their uncle Stephen Pagnell has Lancastrian connections. I should have been told at once.’

‘My Lord, they are but boys. As a father I thought how frightened they must be.’

‘How kind of you. And their parents feigned surprise, I’ve no doubt.’

‘My Lord, they did not know.’

By the time Wykeham released him, Owen was shaking with anger. He headed for the barracks and drank his fill from a barrel of ale, then slept it off on Alfred’s bed.

Owen woke in mid-afternoon with a headache and marched back to the palace, telling a disapproving Michaelo that he must speak to the archbishop.

Interrupting a meeting with the mayor to speak to Owen, Thoresby was plainly irritated to hear Owen’s story of the Ferriby boys and complaints about Wykeham. ‘I don’t expect you to like the bishop. Your mission is to investigate the recent incidents involving him and his property.’ He held up his hand to stop Owen from interrupting. ‘If you are satisfied that the tile incident was an accident, then that matter is closed. Now I must return to Mayor Gisburne. Have a care, Archer. Convince me you are yet trustworthy.’

Still cursing under his breath, Owen came upon Godwin Fitzbaldric in the palace garden, sitting on the very bench from which Wykeham often studied the minster. The merchant sat stiffly straight, his hands resting on his thighs. His eyes were not fixed on the magnificent structure, but rather downcast. He looked despondent — as he should, having almost cost his serving woman her life. More likely he mourned the goods lost in the fire. Owen slowed his pace and studied Fitzbaldric. According to the Dales, the merchant had disappeared to the garden for a long while before the servant brought news of the fire. Here was someone on whom he might exercise his irritation. He continued his approach with more energy than he truly felt, allowing crunching pebbles to announce him. Fitzbaldric brought his head up, nodded once at Owen and then rose with care, a cautionary hand on his lower back.

‘Good-day to you, Master Fitzbaldric.’

‘And to you, Captain Archer.’

‘I am glad to find you alone.’ Owen settled down at one end of the bench, straddling it, gesturing for Fitzbaldric to resume his seat.

‘I cannot think what else I might tell you, Captain.’ The merchant eased himself down, allowing Owen his profile as he moved gingerly, finding a comfortable balance.

‘Do you play me false, Master Fitzbaldric?’

The merchant bristled with indignation, turning too suddenly. ‘What is this?’ But his eyes were more wary than angry, or perhaps it was pain Owen was reading.

He felt no sympathy. ‘It is about the evening of the fire. You left the Dales’ hall for a long while, your fellows have said. What were you doing all that time?’

Fitzbaldric’s breathing altered slightly. ‘I… I was in the Dales’ yard, relieving myself. It was dark, the yard unfamiliar.’

‘And?’

‘I heard a shout, or a cry. Or I thought I did — that is why I have not mentioned it before, I am not certain what I heard.’

‘Continue.’

‘I ran to the Dales’ gate off Stonegate and saw someone running off towards St Helen’s Square.’

Corm’s running man. ‘You have not spoken of this before.’

‘Everything happened at once.’

‘Could you tell whether it was a man or woman?’

‘A man, I am sure of it. The shout — or whatever the sound was — had come from Petergate, in the direction of my house — or the bishop’s, of course — so I stepped out into the street, rounded the corner and it seemed to me the air was too smoky. By the time I reached the house, Poins was being pulled from the burning undercroft.’ Fitzbaldric wiped his brow.

If the shout had been Corm’s alarm, the running man had taken a long while to run round the corner from the bishop’s house to the Dales’. Corm had seen the running man, then carried the four sacks of grain down the alley one at a time. All that before noticing the fire and shouting for help. ‘You are certain of how it happened? You heard the shout, then saw the man?’

‘I am. I had no cause to look out on the street but for the shout.’ Fitzbaldric grew uncomfortable under Owen’s study. ‘Others must have seen him, surely,’ he said in a weak voice.

‘One person has mentioned a man running, but you disagree on the sequence of events.’

‘What are you implying, Captain?’

‘You should have told me of this at once.’

‘I told you, I was unsure what I had heard.’

‘His Grace the Archbishop is uneasy about the fire, as is the bishop.’

‘I cannot fault them in that. But what of us, what we have suffered?’

‘Did you keep the undercroft locked?’

Fitzbaldric turned slightly on the bench, dipping his head to look into Owen’s eye. ‘We did.’

‘Did your wife keep the key on her person?’

‘No, we kept it on a hook in the hall, as we do at home in the country. Now look, you …’

‘How long has Poins been in your service?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘The bishop kept records in the undercroft, as you know. It is possible the fire might have been no accident.’

‘But you cannot think Poins would set fire to the house? What would he profit by such a deed?’

‘What might anyone?’