Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘This plan?’

‘Move Taverner to his home. His niece is here every day nursing him. Let her take over completely.’

‘She is here every day?’

Cuthbert bristled. ‘She believes our medicines are inferior, our food does not promote good health.’ He sniffed. ‘She has destroyed the harmony in the infirmary.’

‘Taverner is sufficiently recovered to be left alone?’

‘He is well enough to complain about someone else’s cough.’

Why did Cuthbert make so much of this? ‘If he agrees, let him go home. He has a servant, does he not?’

‘Of course.’

‘Instruct the servant to call for one of the lay sisters if anything seems amiss. Anneys. She seems competent.’

‘Anneys, Sir Richard? But she is our best-’

‘You heard me, Cuthbert. I want Julian Taverner to feel he is getting the best care possible.’

Cuthbert made a submissive gesture. ‘I wished to speak with you about Mistress Staines.’

‘What about her?’

‘She asks to speak with Taverner.’

‘Why?’

‘She will not say.’

‘What is between the two of them, I wonder?’

‘He was once her employer, Sir Richard. Perhaps she seeks his advice.’

Ravenser considered. ‘Move her to the windowed room in the gaol. It is less like a cell.’

‘Yes, Sir Richard.’

‘Let her go about her work by day, return to her cell by night. We may learn something by her movements.’

Cuthbert’s pinched face registered disapproval. ‘As you wish.’ He tucked his hands up his sleeves, bowed to Ravenser.

‘And now, I pray you, leave me in peace.’ Ravenser retreated into the comforting shadows of his own house. But his step was lighter than before. He was proud of his inspiration for easing Honoria de Staine’s defensive silence.

Alisoun and her Aunt Colet circled round each other warily. Neither felt comfortable turning her back on the other.

‘How did you come to be spared?’ Colet asked the child as soon as she stepped from the cart.

Alisoun turned back to her uncle. ‘I told you I should stay at the farm. She does not want me here.’

‘Do not turn from me when I am speaking to you!’ Colet said in an imperious voice.

Lame John pushed Alisoun forward. ‘Pay your respects to your aunt, child.’

She turned to face Colet. Fair and fat she was, with eyebrows and lashes so blonde they were transparent and made her face look naked. She had large, prominent teeth and a sneer that lingered even on the rare occasions when she smiled. Alisoun thought her disgusting. It was at that moment that she took a vow to remain silent so long as she stayed in her aunt’s house.

Three days of her silence drove Colet mad. ‘I cannot have this impertinence in my house!’

‘What is your complaint, wife? She has obeyed you in everything.’

‘Except to speak. I cannot know her mind if she will not speak.’

‘You did not much like her mind.’

‘’Tis the Devil’s work. No natural child could keep still so long. And what of that longbow? Who taught her to use it?’

‘My brother Duncan. A foolish idea, I admit.’

‘You must take it from her.’

‘If she aims it at one of us, I will do so, wife. But not before.’

‘You are not only lame, but weak, husband.’

‘And a fool for wedding such an ill-natured woman.’

Alisoun listened to the argument as she sat just outside the doorway, keeping an eye on her two young cousins while she stirred a sickening mixture of honey, oats and milk for her aunt’s complexion. Aunt Colet had sneered at what she called Alisoun’s mother’s airs, but what farmer’s wife pampered herself so with plasters to whiten and soften the skin? Did she ready herself for court? And while she lay napping in the late afternoon with the concoction on her face, Alisoun must sit and fan away the flies that fancied the honey.

Her little cousins began to shriek as they pulled each other’s hair. Alisoun put the bowl aside and yanked the two apart. A shooting pain travelled up her right arm. Her hand was sore from stirring the thickening mixture. And who could blame the children for fighting? They were sweaty and irritable from playing in the sun. Even Alisoun, sitting in the shade of a spindly tree, felt light-headed from the heat. And queasy from the sweet scent of her aunt’s concoction. She drew the two girls over by the house and allowed them each to dip one fingertip into the mixture. That would quiet them for a while.

Alisoun settled back on the bench, shaded her eyes, stared off into the distance. But no clouds of dust heralded her cousin’s approach. Three days she had been here, and there had been no sign of her cousin. That morning Lame John had read the anxiety in her furtive glances out of the door and had assured her that Rich would be back from market this day: he had been delayed, but surely by mid-morning he would appear, and he would fetch her horse as soon as he returned. It was now past midday and still there was no sign of him. Alisoun did not think it at all likely that he would agree to turn round on arrival and go to her farm for the horse.

So she planned to leave as soon as the sun set. It would be easy then. Her bed was in an outlying shed. No one would miss her till morning.

On the road to Bishopthorpe, Alfred, one of the archbishop’s retainers, compensated for his sullen captain’s silence by babbling statistics about the dead and dying in York. Owen did not listen long enough to be bothered by it. He knew that Alfred was nervous about a rash under his arm that he was certain foretold pestilence, despite Lucie’s assurances that it was a heat rash. Alfred had seen a star falling from the sky the night before the rash had appeared, and that was enough to convince him that he was doomed. In the circumstances, Owen thought it best to let Alfred chatter and jaw if it eased his mind, though he could not imagine how talk of the plague comforted him.

As they rode through the gates of Bishopthorpe, Alfred pointed towards a figure standing by the door to the hall.

Owen was amazed. ‘Brother Michaelo. Out in the yard, sitting in the sunlight? How unlike him.’ The archbishop’s secretary was not fond of fresh air.

As grooms helped Owen and Alfred from their horses, Brother Michaelo rose and approached them slowly, his usually inexpressive face a mask of grief.

‘ Benedicte , Brother Michaelo,’ Owen said. ‘I pray all are well in the house?’

‘ Benedicte , Captain Archer, Alfred.’ Michaelo bowed his head towards each in turn. ‘I am sad to say Death has visited the household. Maeve, the cook, has this morning lost her youngest daughter to the pestilence.’

Alfred crossed himself and coughed nervously.

‘May God grant her eternal rest,’ Owen murmured. ‘I hope that everyone else in the household is well?’ He was not in the mood to linger on the death of a child. Their maid, Kate, had that morning learned of the death of her youngest brother, another victim of the pestilence. Her grief was hard to bear. Kate’s sister, Tildy, at Freythorpe Hadden with Gwenllian and Hugh, had yet to hear the sad news.

‘So far God has taken no others,’ Michaelo said, ‘but two of the gardener’s children are ailing.’ He crossed himself. ‘His Grace hopes you can concoct something from our stores to calm Maeve. She will let no one comfort her.’

‘A few cups of His Grace’s brandywine should suffice. A scattering of balm leaves in the cup will lighten her heart. And if you have any valerian root, a pinch would hasten drowsiness. Sleep is the best remedy for grief.’

Michaelo glanced at the pouch Alfred held to his nose. ‘I see that you carry the scented bags. We have been using balls of ambergris. Which do you recommend, Captain?’