Candace Robb: The Cross Legged Knight

Fitzbaldric put an arm round her. ‘We have the warehouse in Hull, Adeline. And the support of the guild.’

Thinking the couple caught up in one another, Owen began to cross over to find where the corpse lay. But he discovered Fitzbaldric hurrying after him.

The merchant stopped him in the middle of the street. ‘Is it true you are seeing to Poins?’

‘My wife so ruled.’

‘God bless you and all your household, Captain. He was in terrible pain.’

And might not live to tell the tale, or face punishment .

‘Who is that woman, Captain? We had no other women in the house.’

‘I have yet to see her. Where have they taken her?’

‘The neighbour’s shed, on the far side of the house. They put her there awaiting the coroner.’

‘See to your throat, your wounds, Master Fitzbaldric. You have been through much this night.’

As Thoresby sat over wine with Wykeham, listening to his complaints, his fears, the seriousness of the rift between Wykeham and Lancaster became clear to him. On the surface, Lancaster and Wykeham were alike in their lack of those pleasing graces that bind people to great men out of love, though where Lancaster was flint-eyed and cold, Wykeham was pinch-lipped and stubborn. The dangerous difference — dangerous to the bishop and all who crossed the duke — was Lancaster’s passionate nature. And in alienating Lancaster by the rumours of his lowly birth — or the failure to contradict the rumours in a sufficiently public arena — and then giving voice to the criticism of the duke’s ability as a general, Wykeham had insulted the man to the very heart. Which put much weight behind Wykeham’s fears.

Thoresby was considering how to express his thoughts diplomatically when he was distracted by voices from the hall entrance. What had been a murmur grew louder.

Wykeham shifted in his chair, glancing towards the carved screen that shielded them from the doorway.

From behind it came Brother Michaelo, his elegant face flushed, his bow and apology curt. ‘There is terrible news. The bishop’s house in Petergate is ablaze. A woman is dead, a man badly injured.’

‘God rest their souls,’ Thoresby said as he crossed himself.

Wykeham did the same, then demanded, ‘Who? The Fitzbaldrics?’

His clerk Alain hastened in after Michaelo. His pale hair clung damply to his head, his gown was spotted with water, his shoes created puddles. ‘Their servants,’ said Alain.

‘You were there?’

‘I was eating in a tavern when news of the fire drew all my fellows out to help — I followed, helping pass buckets until enough folk had arrived that I could slip away. I thought you should hear.’

Wykeham groaned. ‘God save us.’ He moved towards the screen passage, checked himself, raised a hand to his brow. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked Alain. ‘Is the house lost?’

‘Most of the house is gone. It began in the undercroft,’ said Alain.

‘What devil has been loosed against me?’ said Wykeham in a choked whisper.

‘Fires are common in a city such as York,’ Thoresby said, but Wykeham was not listening.

‘You said the undercroft — did it begin in the records room?’ Wykeham asked his clerk.

‘I do not know, My Lord Bishop.’

‘You had documents stored in the undercroft?’ Thoresby asked, belatedly understanding the implications of Wykeham’s questions.

‘Yes. Property records, accounts.’

‘Can anything be saved?’ Wykeham asked Alain.

‘If so it will be thanks to the folk of this city. They streamed from their houses with pots and buckets in hand, shouting directions to the nearest wells.’

‘They are saving their own properties,’ Thoresby noted.

‘Were any others injured?’ Wykeham asked his clerk.

‘I heard of no others. My Lord, I fear for your safety in York.’

Wykeham turned to Thoresby. ‘Captain Archer — he has investigated such things for you before.’

Seeing the fear in the eyes of the bishop and his clerk, Thoresby did not argue. ‘Michaelo, send for Archer.’

‘According to Alain the captain is at the fire, Your Grace.’

‘He rescued a maidservant from the solar,’ Alain said. ‘He is a courageous man.’

‘We have no need for heroics, just answers,’ Thoresby snapped. ‘Send for him.’

Crossing back towards the fire, Owen found Alfred. As they searched for a lantern and then headed for the shed, Owen asked what Alfred knew of the woman taken from the burning undercroft.

‘She was lying on her stomach just beyond the outstretched hand of the manservant.’

‘What else?’

‘If she had been lying any farther inside, they would not have seen her. Though that matters little to her.’

‘Someone will miss her, Alfred. At least they will know what happened. Has the coroner been here?’

‘He is helping with the fire. I do not think he has viewed the corpse.’

Owen could not fault him. The fire threatened the city. The unfortunate victim could wait. ‘What of a priest?’

‘Father Linus from St Michael-le-Belfrey gave her the last rites, in case her soul had not yet departed.’ Alfred nodded towards a man who had stepped away from the chain of water carriers and was drinking from a tankard being passed along. ‘One of the rescuers. Folk are making much of the two men who threw water over each other and went in to bring her out.’

‘They deserve the praise,’ said Owen, ‘to walk through fire for a woman they do not know.’

‘Who can say whether they know her? She is charred far worse than the man, as if she had lain in the heart of the fire. But the earth floor protected her face, and the front of her body.’

‘Then someone should be able to name her.’

‘She is not a pretty sight, Captain. Her face swelled in the heat and her hair is burned away. Her body is several times its size like someone pulled from the flood.’

They stood now before the shed.

‘Do you need me in there?’ Alfred asked in a voice that made it plain he prayed Owen would not.

‘Stay without, let no one disturb me.’

‘Gladly.’

The air in the shed was heavy with the odour of burned flesh. Owen left the door slightly ajar. The body had been laid out on a wattle panel, face up. Owen crouched down and slowly moved the lantern the length of the body. Alfred had been right, she was a piteous sight, half her face blackened, misshapen, the unburned side bloated, distorting her features. Her torso was swollen, and charred but for a hand’s span down the length of it, where it had been protected by the earth floor. Owen shuttered the lantern and stepped outside for air.

Alfred was talking to one of his fellow palace guards.

‘I thought you were on duty at the palace,’ Owen said.

‘I am, Captain, but His Grace the Archbishop sent me to fetch you. He wants to hear what you have observed here.’

Brandywine, fragrant air free of smoke, far away from the stench of burned flesh — Owen minded the summons far less than was his habit. The prospect provided the spur he needed to return to the corpse within the shed, a respite at the end of the dread task of examining her. But he should also have a look at Poins. ‘Tell His Grace that I shall come soon, after I have been home to see how the injured servant is faring.’

The guard shook his head. ‘His Grace said he would accept no excuses, no delays.’

So Thoresby would get half the story. ‘Why is he so insistent, I wonder?’

‘He has asked for extra guards on the palace, also.’

Thoresby must believe the fire was a threat to Wykeham.

‘I shall follow soon.’

‘But …’

‘If I do not examine the corpse, I shall have little to tell His Grace.’

‘Aye, Captain.’