Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

‘You’re going to the palace now?’

‘I am. I must ready the men for tomorrow.’

When she looked confused he told her of Wykeham’s demands.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ Lucie asked. ‘Do you think he has cause to fear?’

‘God’s blood, I wish I knew. Nothing we have learned suggests that he has anything to fear. But one man working for Lancaster’s followers — that is all it would have taken.’

‘You dislike him more and more.’

‘Aye, he sours the air he breathes.’

‘Watch yourself. Remember you do all this for Cisotta.’

‘Aye. He cares nothing about her, but I do.’

‘God go with you, my love.’

‘And you. Now to bed with you. You are too pale.’

She watched him leave, then slowly climbed to their chamber.

Thoresby paused over the garb in which he would hear Poins’s confession. It was unlike him to expend such time on a trifle, yet he wanted neither to frighten the servant nor to disappoint him. Poins wished to confess to him — he did not know whether it was because he was archbishop, or because he was John Thoresby, the cleric who had been kind to him.

‘Your Grace?’ His page stood by the wardrobe chest holding up the houppelande that Thoresby had chosen earlier for dining.

‘Yes, yes.’ Thoresby motioned the page over with the gown. He would not look a beggar in any case.

Michaelo handed Thoresby a lavender-scented cloth as he passed through his private hall to the kitchen.

‘God bless you,’ Thoresby said. ‘I had forgotten how the man’s wounds stank.’

He caused a flutter in the kitchen.

‘Be at ease,’ Thoresby said, ‘I am but passing this way to visit the invalid.’ He caught a disapproving spark in his cook’s eyes.

Magda Digby stepped out from the screened area and bowed to him. ‘Poins is ready for thee.’

She sat down just outside the screens, a formidable guard. Thoresby wondered whether Michaelo was in place in the room above, but he did not dare look up for fear Poins would notice. The injured man was propped up on pillows. The bandage across his face was clean, as was all the visible flesh. His left hand lay outside the covers, pressed to his chest. He made a movement with his right shoulder, then closed his eyes for a moment.

‘I cannot make the sign of the cross,’ he whispered.

Thoresby felt the comment deep in his chest. Such a simple gift for which man never gives thanks until it is taken from him. ‘It matters not, my son. May the Lord bless you, and may His peace embrace you.’

‘Bless me, Father. I … do not know whether … I am guilty of the sin … of which they accuse me … with their eyes.’ So little speech, yet Poins lay back, fighting for breath.

Thoresby eased down on to a chair that had been placed to the left of the bed, where the infirm man might hear and be heard with ease. An infirmarian had once told him that the dying straddle two worlds, that of the spirit and that of the flesh, and that holding their hands or merely touching their arms often draws them more firmly back into this world. In Queen Philippa’s last illness she had often reached for Thoresby’s hand, seeming to find comfort in his touch. He touched Poins’s forearm.

The man seemed to straighten a little, his eyes focusing on Thoresby.

‘Father, I fear … I am dying. I cannot bear … the stench … of my own flesh. I… do not know myself.’ He paused for breath. ‘The Riverwoman said … I must fight if … I wish to live — ’ His breath trembled on the exhale.

Thoresby took his hand.

‘For what should I … live, Father? What work … might I do?’

Even the gestures of prayer were lost to him. He was unlettered, too scarred to seek a wife. Thoresby could say only, ‘Despair is a sin, my son. It is not for us to choose our passing. God will take you when it is your time.’

‘God.’ Poins almost spat the word. ‘My arm is gone … and still … He gives me pain. Have I not … suffered enough? Should I … fight to live … so I might … beg on the streets?’ Poins clutched Thoresby’s hand, and though his chest heaved with sobs, his eyes were fierce.

‘We cannot know God’s intentions,’ Thoresby said.

Poins groaned and lay back again on his pillows, closed his eyes and struggled for breath.

In the long silence, Thoresby jumped at a tell-tale creak up above and began murmuring prayers.

At last Poins said, ‘May must not be … blamed for the fire, Father … or for Cisotta’s death.’

‘Are you to blame, then?’

‘Bless me, Father … for I have sinned.’

Thoresby bowed his head and listened.

Alfred and those guards not on duty were sitting round a table in the barracks finishing their supper when Owen joined them. On his walk over he had sought a way to impress on the men the importance of defending Wykeham the following day, but it was difficult when he was not convinced of the danger. Lancaster’s hatred of Wykeham was the key. Yet since the fire, all had been quiet.

Owen need not have worried — the eyes that looked up from the ale cups were all grave with the knowledge that tomorrow they might face a powerful enemy.

‘Captain.’ Alfred came forward. ‘I am right glad you are here. The men have questions, and some suggestions for the morrow.’

This part did not require Owen’s conviction, only his experience. He leaned against one of the aisle pillars and set his mind to strategy.

Thoresby had stepped back to bless and absolve Poins.

With his one good hand, Poins pulled up the edge of the blanket and mopped the sweat dripping into his left eye. The bandage across his forehead was soaked. The stench was enough for Thoresby at last to lift the scented cloth to his nose, inhaling shallowly so as to receive only the perfume, not the odour that permeated the room.

‘For your penance, my son, you must repeat all that you have told me to Captain Archer.’

‘I am tired, Father.’

‘I cannot divulge what you have told me in confession. If you wish to clear the maid’s name you must tell your story openly.’

Poins closed his eyes. ‘I’ll sleep now.’

Thoresby was exhausted. He wanted wine, fresh air. ‘You must tell Captain Archer.’

Poins’s head sank to the right, his breathing deepened.

Sleep. It was the only pleasure left to the man.

Magda Digby rose as Thoresby came out from behind the screens.

‘Does he yet live, Thy Grace?’

‘Yes, though for how long only God can say.’

‘He grows weary of the struggle. Magda can only do so much.’

She glanced over to the doorway into the hall, where May stood with her head strained forward, her eyelids fluttering. Weighed down by Poins’s despair, Thoresby sought the evening garden.

‘Your Grace.’

May had come to him. She stood with head bowed.

‘He wants your name cleared of all blame,’ he told her before she asked.

She lifted her face to his, her chin trembling. ‘Then he has confessed?’

‘He has made his confession and that is all I may tell you. To be absolved he must tell Captain Archer all he has told me.’

‘My Lord Archbishop cannot absolve him otherwise?’

‘I will not. And you should tell Archer of your actions that night.’

‘I have, Your Grace.’

What? What else is Archer holding back?

‘Your Grace?’

‘Then you have cleared yourself.’

‘I am partly to blame. I called Cisotta to the house, Your Grace,’ May whispered.

‘Did you?’ And so did Poins . Thoresby sighed. ‘Who tells the truth here?’ He shook his head and crossed the kitchen, waving a quick blessing as he passed Maeve and her assistant. He glanced back once as he reached the door, saw May step through the screens and Magda emerge, returning to the bench on which she had awaited him.