Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

‘Dear God.’ Emma stared at her upturned palms. ‘I thought him evil, but not so evil as to murder.’

‘I cannot make sense of it,’ Lucie said.

Emma had dropped her hands to her lap and sat contemplating them in a silence that troubled Lucie. It was so quiet she could hear Gwenllian’s laughter in the garden, Kate speaking loudly so that Phillippa could hear her over the splashing water in the laundry tub.

‘How long have you known how Cisotta was murdered?’ Emma asked in a voice that echoed the tension of her former silence. Her eyes accused Lucie.

‘I have known all along. It is a secret, Emma. I pray you, tell no one of this.’

‘Is that why you kept it from me this long?’

‘Of course it is. What need had you to know? I have only this moment learned that the strap might belong to your household.’

‘My mother’s household.’ Emma slipped from the bed, moved to the window, where she looked without, her back to Lucie. ‘Or do you fear that the rumours are true, that my family had a hand in the fire?’ She did not move, did not turn to regard Lucie.

‘I have never thought your family to blame. I told you, no one knows how Cisotta died. Emma, please, you must believe me.’

Emma did not respond.

Lucie slipped the strap and the beads into her scrip, pushed back the covers and rose, using the bedpost to steady herself. Her balance felt better than before, but the floorboards were cold. ‘It is time to hang the bed curtains,’ she murmured to herself, dispelling the uncomfortable silence.

‘You should keep them up throughout the year,’ Emma said, glancing at the plain rails connecting the posts. ‘Drafts in summer are as dangerous as those in winter.’ She noticed where Lucie was. ‘Standing there in bare feet and just a shift is doubly foolish.’

‘I should be grateful for less criticism and your help in dressing.’ Lucie lifted her bandaged hand. ‘This makes the simplest task difficult.’

Emma gently took the bandaged hand. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, avoiding Lucie’s eyes. Her voice was strained.

‘Yes. But it matters not whether I lie abed or sit in the garden, and I am not as fond of this chamber as I once was. I’ve spent too much time in it of late. I should enjoy some air.’

‘Why did you have all those things on the bed?’

Lucie heard concern in Emma’s tone. ‘I thought to learn something from them. I prayed for guidance in how to assist Owen — and God answered me with your identifying the strap. Now I feel impatient to tell Owen, but he may be out all the day. I must do something. I cannot sit here any longer.’

Emma had already taken the gown Lucie had worn in the morning from a hook on the wall and collected her shoes and linen-lined hose.

‘Those are too warm,’ Lucie protested.

‘You have lost much blood and your humours are ill-balanced. Warmth is important at such a time. I shall instruct Kate to spice your food.’ Emma still seemed stiff in demeanour.

Lucie did not wish to argue about her humours at the moment. ‘Owen must talk to Matthew, find out the truth.’

Emma lifted the gown and helped Lucie pull it down, then began on the buttons. ‘If he murdered Cisotta and has been clever enough to hide his guilt so far, he is not likely to confess.’

‘Where does Matthew sleep?’

‘With Edgar, the boys’ tutor.’

‘I would speak with Edgar.’

Emma sighed and held out a sleeve for Lucie’s arm, then fumbled with the laces at the shoulders.

Lucie tried not to complain about Emma’s jerky movements.

‘Owen will not be pleased if you go abroad in the city,’ Emma said.

Nor was Lucie ready today. ‘Then would you speak with Edgar, ask him whether he has noticed anything in Matthew’s behaviour, whether he knows where Matthew was the night of the fire, or at least whether he was out, when he came in?’

Emma pulled over a low stool and sat on it, wrapping her arms round herself. ‘My stomach aches to think of going home. How can I look upon Matthew?’

‘Remember that we have no proof that he is guilty. Faith, we do not even know whether he knew Cisotta.’

‘That is so. I cannot imagine how he would have made her acquaintance.’

‘Men have a way of finding beautiful women.’

Emma shook her head. ‘He is chasing wealthier and more powerful prey.’

‘Cisotta might have been a past conquest. Or merely a dalliance, a distraction. But at the moment we know nothing to accuse him of.’

The two women looked at each other, their faces sober.

‘Except that she was strangled with a strap very like those in our house,’ Emma said slowly.

‘Speak with Edgar.’

Emma slipped one of the hose up Lucie’s leg and helped her fasten it, then the other. They were warm on Lucie’s chilled feet.

‘Mother is meeting with Wykeham on the morrow,’ Emma said as she picked up Lucie’s shoes. ‘Have you heard?’

‘No. How did he convince her? Was it the boys’ accident?’

‘He sent a messenger asking to meet at our house with John and Ivo in the morning. Mother took it as a sign of trouble, though I thought the bishop took care with his words to sound reassuring.’

‘Has she invited him to the house?’

‘No. She proposed to meet at the palace.’

‘But that is perfect! At what time do they meet?’

Puzzled, Emma said, ‘Just after midday.’

‘I shall come to your home in early afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘To search Matthew’s belongings.’

‘Oh — but surely Magda wants you to rest.’

‘I cannot rest until we have found Cisotta’s murderer.’

‘Lucie.’

‘I have been lying in that bed day after day, night after night, thinking of the child I lost, worrying about God’s purpose, whether he means to take more from me. When I am not fearing for my children I am mourning the friend who nursed me. I cannot bear it, Emma. I must have occupation.’

She could see in Emma’s eyes that she had touched a chord.

Owen sank down against the wall outside the palace kitchen and let the sun soak into him. He felt his failure with Poins in his bones. The man had little more to lose, so there was precious little chance of coercing him into talking more about the fire. To come so close to knowledge only to have it incomplete — Owen’s jaw hurt he clenched his teeth so, and his stomach churned from the stench of Poins’s decaying flesh that seemed to have seeped into his skin. So Owen sat, letting his head, chest, arms and the front of his legs grow warm while those parts of him not directly in the sun stayed chilled.

His head spun with questions that might never be answered. He needed to work up a sweat, purge the stench, ease his aches. He thought about the practice yard at Kenilworth where he would fight until his head buzzed and afterwards dowse himself with a bucket of cold water, then sit in the sunshine enjoying a tankard of ale with his men. Lief was dead now, Ned exiled. Bertold still led Lancaster’s archers and Gaspare had gone on a mission for Lancaster and never returned. There was no going back.

The best he could do now to work up a sweat was to split wood or do the garden chores that required a strong back, neither as satisfying as the practice yard. Magda’s voice drifted from the kitchen. He should speak with her. But he found himself walking in the opposite direction, into the palace garden.

With Emma steadying her at the elbow, Lucie walked the paths of her garden and thought about her new piece of information. It was God’s gift to her, of that she was certain, for had Emma not walked in when the strap was lying on the bed Lucie doubted she would have shown it to her at all, and would never have known its use. That the Lord had answered Lucie’s prayer with such clarity and speed had cast out her devils for the moment. Gwenllian and Hugh had seemed much comforted by her smiling face. Alisoun had said Magda might have erred in giving Lucie such a strong tonic, for she seemed far better without it. Lucie fought to hide her unsteadiness. Slowly though she was walking, still her heart pounded and her legs felt as if they might buckle beneath her with each step. But it was worth the effort.