Candace Robb - The Cross Legged Knight

‘The captain sent me. Colin watches on Davygate.’

‘Why? What does Owen fear?’

‘That Poins might be a witness someone might wish to silence.’

‘For a fire?’ Magda said.

‘The Bishop of Winchester has many enemies.’ Alfred bowed to Lucie. ‘With your leave, Mistress Wilton.’

‘Keep your watch, Alfred. The captain must have his reasons.’

Magda joined Lucie on the bench and helped herself to some of the brandywine. When she moved, her gown seemed to glimmer in the darkness and when she faced Lucie her eyes reflected what little light there was. ‘Thou art made of strong stock, Lucie Wilton. Thou hast some of thy warrior father in thee.’

‘I could not do what you have just done.’

‘Magda thought of the healing she was making possible, not the horror of the act. Thou couldst do the same, in time.’

‘I count myself fortunate to be an apothecary, not a healer.’

‘Thou art taking on the work of a healer with Poins.’

‘The most difficult part is done.’

Magda shook her head. ‘He may die, he may heal slowly, his master may say a one-armed servant is of no use to him. There is much ahead and thou hast taken him in at a difficult time for thee.’

‘I am much recovered.’

‘Art thou?’

‘You know that I am.’

‘In body, mayhap, but thou art battling a darkness. Magda sees it. It draws thee down.’

Lucie glanced over at Alfred, who stood beneath the eaves at the corner of the house with head cocked, one leg before the other, as if ready to pounce.

‘He is not listening to women’s talk,’ Magda said. ‘He hath his ears pricked for trouble. Thy husband inspires fast loyalty in his men.’

Lucie did not wish to be reminded of all she had to be thankful for. It made her troubled state harder to forgive in herself, which pulled her down yet further. This was her terrible sin — that she knew she had no cause to feel this way, that God had showered blessings on her. When she had sought guidance from Archdeacon Jehannes, he had offered comfort, saying that it was much like a crisis of faith, which most priests experienced at least once in their lives, and that prayer was the best cure. But prayer had not helped Lucie. ‘I have not spoken of this with Owen.’

‘Thou thinkst he cannot see?’

‘Is it so plain?’

‘To thy husband it must be. Why hast thou not spoken to him of this?’

‘He watches me as it is, has Jasper staying close by me. If he knew the thoughts I have he would not leave my side. I thought work would help. Archdeacon Jehannes suggested it. And prayer.’

Magda sniffed. ‘A priest? What does a priest know of a mother’s mourning?’

‘Such despair is sinful. I was afraid for my soul.’

Magda handed Lucie the cup. ‘If thou didst not mourn, they would call thee unnatural.’

‘What if I cannot bear another child?’

Magda grunted in understanding. ‘Eventually thou shalt cease to bear, aye, and whether it be after two or twenty babes, thou shalt mourn the passing of that part of thy life. But that time has not yet come for thee.’ She bent to reach a twig of rosemary, broke off a piece, pressed it between her hands, slowly rubbed. ‘Thou shouldst do likewise. Thy patient should not smell his blood on thee.’

Lucie took another sprig from the bush of rosemary.

‘Hast thou brought Poins into thy house as a penance for thy despair?’

Lucie disliked the question, feeling naked to Magda’s probing mind. ‘I thought it was charity, but I do not know myself these days.’ Lucie thought of the man’s suffering and how much worse it would be when he woke to discover the loss of the arm. ‘I should go in to him.’

‘Phillippa is there.’

‘What of the arm?’

‘It is in the shed out here. Someone should bury it on the morrow, before a pig or a dog sniffs it out.’

Lucie thought of her own partly formed child, baptized by Cisotta and buried so recently. ‘The arm was part of him.’

‘Aye, that it was. As thy child was part of thee.’

‘Are all my thoughts so plain to you?’

‘In this time, mayhap. Magda lost children as well.’

‘I mourned Martin when he died of the pestilence, but not like this, not with such hopelessness, as if now all I love are marked for death.’ Martin had been her first-born, her child with her first husband, Nicholas Wilton.

‘Each loss is as if the first, and yet ever different.’

‘Tell me about your sorrows.’

Magda tossed the rosemary into the darkness. ‘Those are tales for another day. Let us see whether Phillippa has drawn Poins out of his swoon.’

While Owen waited to be shown into Thoresby’s parlour, Wykeham’s two clerks descended upon him.

‘Why were no guards posted at the townhouse when we know the bishop has enemies?’ Alain demanded, though his attack was diminished by a fit of coughing. The clerk was suffering the result of being near the fire — or in it. And his dark robe was stained with wet ash near the hem, one sleeve hanging damply.

‘That omission was at your master’s request,’ said Owen.

‘You remember,’ said Guy, who showed no sign of having been near the fire. ‘The bishop did not wish his new tenants to be inconvenienced or unnecessarily concerned.’

‘You have breathed too much smoke this evening,’ Owen said to Alain. ‘Word came quickly to the palace, did it?’

‘I was about in the city when the alarm was rung.’

Owen noticed the singular. ‘Where in the city?’

‘You have no right to question me.’

‘His Grace will wish to know.’

‘He is right, Alain,’ Guy told his fellow.

Alain cleared his throat. ‘I dined at the York Tavern.’

‘And what of you?’ Owen asked Guy. ‘Where were you?’

Guy dropped his gaze. ‘I have spent the evening in prayer,’ he said in a quiet voice.

Owen leaned back, looked at the two men, considering them. Both seemed devoted to the bishop and protective of him. But at the moment Alain seemed concerned about his own status and Guy anxious to ensure peace. Before Owen could speak again one of Thoresby’s servants announced that His Grace and the bishop were ready to see him.

Owen bowed to the clerks. ‘I shall want to talk with you later.’

In the parlour, Wykeham stood clutching the back of a chair. He was not dressed in his clerical robes, but in an embroidered silk houppelande. Thoresby sat near the fire in a deep-blue velvet gown. Their ruddy faces suggested they had drunk and dined well this evening.

It irritated Owen. ‘You sent for me, Your Grace?’

‘I did, Archer.’

‘You must find the arsonist, Captain,’ Wykeham said in a tight voice. ‘We must know the enemy.’

‘My Lord, a fire such as this — ’ Owen stopped as Thoresby shook his head in warning.

‘The bishop is understandably concerned,’ Thoresby said, emphasizing the last two words. ‘What do you think? Was the fire set?’

‘It seems likely.’ Owen wondered what Thoresby knew.

Wykeham pressed his hands together as if in prayer and bowed his head, but as Owen described what he had discovered, drawing the belt from his scrip, and the piece of girdle, the bishop leaned forward, muttering something to himself.

‘God have mercy,’ Thoresby murmured.

Owen noticed the stench of death on the pieces of leather. He wondered whether Wykeham and Thoresby smelled it, too.

‘Who has seen these?’ Wykeham asked, not touching them.

‘The girdle was handed to me by one of the men who carried the woman from the fire. The other, only me.’

‘Then it is not widely known she was murdered?’ said Thoresby.

‘I may be the only one who knows, besides the murderer. And possibly the servant Poins, if he is not the guilty one.’