Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Even in his grief, Michaelo’s obsession with his own well-being remained strong. For once Owen found it refreshing. ‘I cannot in all honesty swear to any of the remedies or preventatives, Michaelo. We worry about being in crowds. But what crowd would Maeve’s child have been in out here?’

‘She took the child into York to collect some items from the archbishop’s palace,’ Michaelo said darkly. ‘And took the child to Mass in the minster.’

Alfred pressed one hand over the rash under his arm. As one of the archbishop’s retainers, he lived in the barracks near the palace.

Owen cursed himself for getting caught in this pointless conversation. ‘You have been a long time from York, Brother Michaelo. There are no crowds round the palace or the minster. Folk keep to themselves. Would you inform His Grace that I am here?’

Michaelo studied Owen for a moment. ‘You are looking well enough.’ He glanced at Alfred. ‘But you have discomfort. You do not bring plague to Bishopthorpe?’

Alfred paled.

‘For pity’s sake, the pestilence is already here,’ Owen grumbled. ‘Alfred has but a rash from the heat if you are so fascinated with the health of others. Mistress Wilton has given him a lotion to soothe it.’

Michaelo’s eyes said he did not believe Owen’s explanation. Neither did Alfred, of course. But the archbishop’s secretary merely sniffed and led them into the house.

Thoresby received Owen in his parlour, usually a cool room in summer, with the windows opening on to the garden and beyond it the river. But today the room was stuffy, with the shutters latched and a brazier aglow with rosemary wood. Ambergris, rosemary wood — Thoresby was not counting on prayers to protect him from the pestilence. The archbishop bent over some work. His hair had grown dusty with age in the past year. When he glanced up to nod to Owen, his eyes seemed even more deeply sunken than usual, his lips pinched.

‘ Benedicte , Archer.’ His eyes returned to the documents on the table before him.

Owen was accustomed to the archbishop. ‘ Benedicte , Your Grace. I hope you find all to your liking at Bishopthorpe.’

‘As ever.’

Thoresby did not make it easy to be pleasant. ‘How fares Queen Phillippa, Your Grace?’

‘Not well. The end is near.’

‘May God bless her and keep her,’ Owen said, crossing himself.

Thoresby sighed, waved Owen to a chair on the other side of the small table at which he sat. ‘You have seen to Maeve?’

Owen settled in the chair, crossed his arms, nodded. ‘I have given Michaelo instructions, Your Grace.’ He glanced at the documents. They appeared to be petitions, letters.

‘Maeve is a good Christian woman,’ Thoresby said. He clapped for a servant, who silently emerged from the shadowy corner. ‘Move these to my work table.’ While the young man scooped up the parchments and carried them across the room, the archbishop said, ‘I pray God the rest of her children do not succumb.’ He motioned to the servant to pour wine, then settled back in his thronelike chair, resting his hands on the rounded armrests. ‘And your family, Archer? Are they well?’

‘Aye, thanks be to God. We have been spared so far.’ Owen noted that the servant’s hands shook as he poured the wine. It was no surprise. Pestilence had come to the manor. All would be wondering who would be the next to fall ill. ‘We have sent the children to Lucie’s father in the country.’

Thoresby picked up his cup, gazed into its depths. ‘A laudable move, though the country has not saved the folk at this manor. Simon, the gardener, has two children ill. Who knows whether they would have been safer in York? But I seldom use the palace in the city. It made sense for Simon to be here. And with all those children …’

Owen glanced out the window at the garden. ‘It matters not how many one has, each child is precious.’

‘Simon bears it well.’

‘So quickly the deaths follow, one on the other.’

‘Is it not the way?’ Thoresby examined his cup in the light. ‘As Master Apothecary, Lucie must be busy.’

‘Aye, that she is. With each visitation of the pestilence folk have become more inventive with their precautions. A wealthy merchant asked yesterday for enough crushed diamonds to strew round his bed and cut Death’s feet to shreds.’

‘Odd. I have ever thought of Death booted.’

‘And I in sandals.’

Thoresby drank deeply.

Owen found the archbishop’s idle babble disturbing. It was unlike him and it delayed the inevitable bad news or tirade. But he might be wise to play along with it. ‘I trust Your Grace is well?’

‘Well enough, Archer.’

Owen thought not. The archbishop’s eyes had none of their customary fire. ‘I have come to the manor as often as I could manage,’ Owen said. In addition to being captain of the archbishop’s retainers in York and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, Owen was responsible for the smooth running of Bishopthorpe in Thoresby’s absence. Perhaps he might ease the conversation towards the business of the day.

‘You have done well, Archer. You have proved yourself worthy of the trust I place in you.’ Thoresby at last met Owen’s gaze. He smiled.

Owen was not fond of Thoresby’s smile. It often meant trouble. ‘You did not summon me to Bishopthorpe to praise my work.’

‘No. I have more work for you. I must take you away with me for a short time.’

Owen clenched his jaw.

‘You will accompany me to my manor of Sherburne.’ The manor was south of Leeds, a good day’s journey from York.

‘What is at Sherburne?’

‘The stones to complete the minster’s Lady Chapel. The quarry has been depleted.’

‘So I have heard. But I thought Michaelo and the master mason were inspecting alternative quarries.’

‘None was of sufficient quality.’

‘There is a quarry on the land at Sherburne?’

Thoresby’s eyes narrowed, as if he thought Owen was being obstinate in not understanding. ‘No. I intend to dismantle the house itself. The stones are well cut, of excellent quality.’

Owen stared at Thoresby, wondering how one responded to an archbishop who had lost his mind.

Thoresby chuckled, though he did not smile. ‘You find the scheme impractical.’

Mad was more like it. ‘That is a beginning, Your Grace.’

‘A beginning?’

Enough of this courtesy. ‘I think it folly to pursue such a scheme, Your Grace. I cannot but wonder at your motivation. Do you tire of the house? It is no longer to your liking? What of the next Archbishop of York? He might take exception to your wanton destruction.’ As Owen spoke he watched Thoresby’s cheeks puff out and redden.

‘Wanton destruction?’

‘Such a house took many men and much labour to create. And you would tear it down because you prefer using the stones for your tomb, when you assuredly have alternatives that would not entail such destruction.’ Owen surprised himself with his vehemence.

‘Had I an alternative I would pursue it, Archer. But the quarries near at hand do not offer such quality, and those far away will take too long and cost too much, and workers are difficult to recruit in the midst of pestilence. I would complete the Lady Chapel this year, before Martinmas.’

Owen closed his eye, considered. Even using Sherburne’s stone, the archbishop could not expect the masons to meet that goal. Little more than three months. And whence came that goal? Did Thoresby think his death so close at hand? ‘Why this year?’

‘I have vowed to complete Our Lady’s chapel in return for her intercession on behalf of the people of York. I have prayed to her to spare them from the pestilence.’

Owen looked Thoresby squarely in the eye. ‘Then you are too late, Your Grace. We have buried more than one hundred in the city these past two months.’