Candace Robb: The Cross Legged Knight

‘Cold is what I want,’ Poins said. ‘And to look up at the stars.’

Seeing the yearning in the fading eyes, Magda sent for Bolton. Between the two of them, Poins hobbled out into the kitchen yard. His breath was ragged and he shook with the effort and the pain, but Poins lifted his head to the sky and stared long at the stars, the treetops, the night garden. Then he declared it enough, he was ready for his bed.

It was no surprise to Magda when during the night his tortured breath quieted, then ceased. She thought it a kindness that May would be taken away from York soon. There were too many sad memories for her here.

On the evening after Wykeham departed Lucie and Owen retired early. The weather had turned sharply cold and they had warmed their stomachs with spiced wine as they mulled over the events of the past week. Lucie was glad that Thoresby had not burdened Owen with a penance that might encourage him to brood about his beating of Guy. Although she knew it a sin, which itself would earn a penance from her confessor, she could not help but be grimly satisfied that Owen had beaten Cisotta’s murderer.

‘And to think that he knew her.’

‘Aye. And knew she could identify him. But when had they met before? Why will he not say?’

‘I have wondered whether Cisotta would have died had she been a stranger to him.’

They fell silent, listening to the shutters rattling, a branch skittering along the roof.

Owen noticed Lucie biting her lip. ‘What is it?’

‘I have yet to apologize to Emma for lying about the gloves.’

He laughed to hear it, her worry so wonderfully ordinary.

‘I feel such a liar,’ she protested.

‘I doubt Emma would care, my love. Her household is at peace and you helped make it so.’

‘It was only a partial lie. I do have a pair of my mother’s gloves in my trunk, delicate work, for hands smaller than mine. I should love to have a pair like them.’

‘Would you? Is Emma’s love of finery having an influence on you?’

‘All has been so bleak of late I should welcome some lovely things round me. It is the end of the season for the garden.’

Owen turned to her. ‘You deserve fine clothes. You still make men trip on their tongues and say foolish things when you smile on them. And you a mother of two.’

‘Four, my love. Let us never forget Martin and the child we have just lost.’

Owen crossed himself and she saw in his face the fear that she would draw away from him now, as she had done so many nights since their loss.

‘But let us return to your compliment.’ She touched his beard, his cheek. ‘You want something.’

‘Aye,’ he murmured into her hair as he gently pulled her towards him. ‘I want you back.’

Lucie arched her body and pressed herself against him, from shoulders to toes, and felt a stirring that had long been dormant.

In the early hours of the morning Owen woke to find Lucie’s side of the bed empty. He turned up the lamp beside the bed. She stood at the window wrapped in one of her cloaks. He went to her.

‘You would not go out?’

‘No, no.’ She turned from him, but he had already seen her tears.

‘You fell asleep content, I thought.’

‘I did. But I woke frightened. God has lifted the darkness, He has lifted my heart from despair. But for a day, a week?’

Owen gathered her to him and held her, whispering his love. It was all he knew to do.

What had been a golden autumn had shifted into days and nights of gusty winds and drizzle that felt like needles on the face after sunset. Thoresby had the servants keep the braziers in his chamber and parlour alight from early morning until he retired. At his age he dreaded the shock of cold bedding. But he was free of Wykeham at last and tomorrow he would ride to Bishopthorpe, casting off all the cares his sojourn in York had brought. One of his last tasks was to spend a few hours in communion with his old friend, Sir Ranulf. It was noon on a market day and the minster nave was peopled with country folk gawking up at the soaring transepts as they prayed. He kept well in the shadows as he skirted the worshippers and slipped into the Pagnell chapel. But the murmur of prayer disappointed him. He had hoped to be alone here. While he hesitated, considering a later visitation, the figure kneeling before the tomb moved, the veiled head turned. It was Emma Ferriby, dressed in a plain white wimple, dark veil and gown. Her ivory rosary beads were her only ornament. She bowed her head to him, then returned to her prayers.

Thoresby knelt beside her and fell to ruminating on Sir Ranulf’s departure, trying to see again the expressions that had moved across the old knight’s face during the ceremony that had blessed him on his way, wishing he might understand in those memories what had gone wrong, and whether his friend had been prepared to suffer and die for his king. He remembered pride, humour and an abiding peace that affected everyone that day, cheering even Lady Pagnell and Emma. He prayed that his friend had been able to call up that peace in his last days, that he had felt it a good death, an honourable passing, and that he looked down from heaven now and smiled to see the cross-legged knight he had become in death.

Fighting tears, Thoresby rose to leave Emma in peace. But she rose also, genuflected, crossed herself with her beads and was following him out when she paused, touched the altar cloth, traced the outline of a crusader knight on the end.

‘I want to thank you for making the reconciliation possible between Mother and Bishop William,’ Emma said. ‘She is at last able to mourn Father.’

‘I am glad of it. And, I confess, grateful to have the bishop gone from York.’ He held out an arm for her. She slipped her hand through it.

Out on the minster steps they paused.

‘Then it is true you are headed for Bishopthorpe?’ Emma asked.

‘Tomorrow, God willing.’

They stood for a moment on the steps of the minster, a swirling mist beading her veil.

‘What is to become of your mother’s steward?’ Thoresby enquired.

‘Mother has no more need of him, nor would she have him if she did. But to my amazement my brother Stephen is considering engaging him, weighing Matthew’s knowledge of the estate against his poor judgement.’

‘I do not wonder at your amazement. Pray God Stephen does not regret his decision.’

They lapsed again into a companionable silence.

Then Thoresby asked, ‘How is your intractable son?’

Emma turned to him with a smile and he saw pride in her eyes. ‘John’s wounds are healing well. He speaks as if his grandfather has at last succeeded in teaching him the lesson he had so often tried to teach him in life. Foolhardiness is not the same as courage. To chase after trouble is not the way of a knight.’

So the lad felt as Thoresby did, that Sir Ranulf’s influence yet lived on in those he had touched in life.

‘And you, my child? Is it enough that Wykeham brought your father’s heart to rest in York?’

‘The dreams have ceased and I feel Father’s presence in the chapel. It is enough for me.’