Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Savage sat back, scratched a temple, all the while studying Ravenser with a hardened glint in his eyes.

Ravenser tried to recoup his loss of ground by declaring the discussion closed. ‘I am pleased that you understand. Was there anything else on your mind?’

A polite snort. Savage leaned forward. ‘But you are mistaken, Sir Richard, I do not understand. It seems to me there is ample room for one elderly widow who shows no signs of living so long as to burden you, God help her. And as I have said, I am willing to pay reasonably.’

Ravenser considered what to say. Were he to complete the explanation, and say that accepting one corrodian would open the door to petitions from all over, and, worst of all, would anger the King, and the only way to mend that would be to accept one of his ageing retainers as a corrodian, for which the King rarely paid a fee, though he often promised one, Savage would argue that the King would understand that the needs of the mayor of York should be met. William Savage had never met the King.

‘Sir Richard?’ Savage was waiting for more discussion.

Ravenser shook his head. ‘I cannot make an exception, Master Savage, even for you.’ And each year another mayor. The thought sickened him.

The mayor’s colour deepened. The musky scent intensified. His chin tilted up, he gazed down his long, bony nose at Ravenser. ‘I suspect that your reasons are not those you offer me.’

‘My reasons are not-’ Ravenser heard himself sputtering and shut up. But the audacity of the man! He fought to regain his calm, and in a much softer voice asked, ‘Surely you do not suggest that I am lying?’

Savage had the grace to squirm — slightly. ‘No. No, I could not in good conscience accuse you of that. But there is another matter that I had hoped to avoid discussing.’

‘And what might that be?’

Savage glanced round the room as if making sure he would not be overheard. ‘It is the matter of a woman you employ as a lay sister. A woman of questionable character. Honoria de Staines.’

A low blow. ‘Mistress Staines has performed much penance and is one of our best servants.’

‘Some would be quite puzzled by that claim, Sir Richard. Quite puzzled.’

‘You have reports of her?’

The mayor smirked. ‘In faith, you cannot be surprised. She has been seen. Even with some of your select number of corrodians.’ He rose, filling the air with musk, bowed slightly to Ravenser, who rose also.

‘Can you provide me with proof?’

Savage sniffed. ‘I shall not betray confidences.’

‘Lies, more like.’

Savage bristled. ‘Have a care, Sir Richard. I know that the hospital is in financial straits because of a shortfall in the Petercorn. If you seek the goodwill of the freemen of the city, you must earn it. By choosing those who work in the hospital with caution. By being a valuable member of the community.’

Ravenser was finding it difficult to control himself. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me how you know about our finances?’

‘It is all over the city. One need only stand on the street and open one’s ears. I thought it common knowledge.’

‘I see.’

Savage shook his head. ‘I am left to conclude that your rejection of my mother-in-law has more to do with your dread that I might be privy to what happens at St Leonard’s.’

Ravenser could take no more. ‘Master Savage, it is widely reported that your mother-in-law is a tyrant. You wish to prevent her taking over your household, that is your motivation in trying to bully me into accepting her here.’

Savage had turned a frightening shade of crimson. ‘That is not my purpose in asking you to take her in!’

Ravenser had wagged his head. ‘Master Savage, now who is tripping on the truth?’

With a flourish of his mayoral robes, Savage had stormed from the room.

Thoresby listened to his nephew’s story in growing despair. ‘For pity’s sake, Richard, Savage was right. You are dependent on the freemen of the city. And you made an enemy of the man who might have defended you to them. Have you no control of your temper?’

A startled expression told him that Ravenser had expected sympathy.

‘And now the new mayor, Roger Selby, asks about her. What is so important about this lay sister? Why must you defend her? Why keep her?’

‘Did not Mary Magdalen find redemption as a follower of Christ?’

‘You would compare yourself with Christ?’

Ravenser groaned. ‘You are a man of God, uncle. Do you not see the goodness in what Cuthbert did?’

‘Cuthbert has earned his place in Heaven by his desire to do good, Richard, but he has done nothing for your career. You must see to it if you wish to climb any higher.’

Thoresby found his nephew a puzzle. His elaborate, colourful attire contradicted the naïve simplicity of his faith.

Bess Merchet arrived early at the infirmary and sat watching her uncle sleep. Julian Taverner seemed old and frail. A network of veins crept across his cheeks, nose and eyelids. The skin of his neck was wrinkled. His hair was still abundant, a family trait, but it was now pure white. It curled tightly, as if someone had washed it the night before, and the singed ends had been trimmed away. That was commendable. Smoke was impossible to get out of hair any other way. A woman cried out in a bed tucked away somewhere in the forest of partitions. A dark-robed sister hurried past, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Did they sleep on their watches? Bess did not like to think that. Nor did she approve of the cobwebs in the rafters or the strong scent of urine and sweat all about, though her uncle’s bed and person smelled fresh. Once, as she’d kept her vigil, Bess had caught Don Cuthbert in the doorway and had sent him off with a hissed ‘Can you not see he is sleeping?’ Perhaps it would be best to take her uncle from here, let him recover at the York Tavern. She had an extra bedchamber for kin up above, across from her own. He would be quite comfortable there.

Julian Taverner rocked his head back and forth on the pillow in sleep, then woke with a groan, clutching his neck with a bandaged hand. His eyes were red. He blinked, trying to focus on Bess. ‘Honoria?’

‘Nay, ’tis only your niece, Bess.’ Honoria indeed.

Don Erkenwald poked his head through the doorway. ‘God go with you, Master Taverner, Mistress Merchet. May I come in?’

Bess liked the solid bulk of the canon, and his courtesy. But she preferred to speak to her uncle alone. ‘I do not mean to be discourteous, but we have had no chance to speak since the fire. I hoped to have some private speech with my uncle.’

Julian, his eyes still slightly unfocused from sleep, was fumbling with his bandaged hands. ‘I cannot feel with all this wrapping. Is there still a cloth over the wound at the back of my head, niece?’

Bess straightened. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of a head wound, uncle.’

Erkenwald stepped closer. ‘That wound is of interest to me.’

‘Oh aye? You are the first to care,’ Julian said, his tone petulant.

Bess leaned over her uncle. ‘There is still a cloth round your head. Let me see the wound, uncle.’

‘’Tis enough to feel it.’ Julian guided Bess’s fingers to a considerable knot on the base of his skull.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did this happen?’

‘It bled so, I thought it would kill me,’ Julian said.

‘I see that you have suffered indeed, uncle. Answer me now — how did this happen?’

‘I was attacked from behind as I bent to drag poor Laurence from the burning house.’

‘No one told me of an attack.’

Erkenwald leaned close, felt the wound. ‘Who hit you?’