Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘He must be buried quickly,’ Anneys said when the monk stepped back from the death-bed. ‘We must prepare him.’ She was her calm self once more, shaking out a clean sheet.

‘Why such haste? He did not die of the pestilence. There is naught to fear,’ Bess said.

‘I think that it was pestilence, and so do you. Why else would you have had the bowl of vinegar by your side?’

Bess glanced at Owen, who shook his head. She stayed her tongue.

‘I shall tell Don Cuthbert what has happened,’ Owen said, hastening out.

As Bess entered St Helen’s Square, her cap askew and the stench of her uncle’s sweat all over her, his thundering heartbeat echoed in her head. What horror had pushed it to such an extreme? Poisoning. Penance. He waited so long . That had been no pestilential fit. Was it possible that he was right, that he had been poisoned? She had seen enough die of the great mortality that she knew it took its victims in many ways, but none like that.

‘Good day, Mistress Merchet. Are you well?’

Bess had not noticed Alice Baker standing by Wilton’s apothecary, eyeing her with interest. ‘Forgive me. My mind was far away.’

‘You look tired.’

‘God help me, so I am, Mistress Baker.’

Alice Baker shook her head. ‘I see you carry no protection.’

‘I shall remedy that at once.’ Bess nodded to the woman and stepped inside the shop.

Lucie glanced up from a customer, took in Bess’s state. ‘Jasper!’ she called. The boy came through the beaded doorway. ‘Forgive me, Master Tyler,’ Lucie said to her customer. ‘I must see to a friend in need. Jasper will finish this.’ She nodded to Bess to follow her to the back.

Seeing the sincere concern in Lucie’s eyes, Bess collapsed on to a chair and wept.

Lucie gently patted Bess’s back and rubbed it as she would comfort Gwenllian. She knew it was serious, whatever had so upset Bess; she was not given to hysterics, yet now she shook with grief. At last, when Bess quieted, Lucie poured two fingers of brandywine. ‘Drink this.’

Bess did so in one tip of her head, then took a deep breath, closed her eyes, pressed her eyelids, sniffed her hands. ‘I reek of the death-bed.’ Her voice broke on the words and she wept again, more quietly now.

Lucie waited until she quieted once more, refilled her cup. ‘Whose death-bed?’

Bess drank, hiccuped. ‘Uncle Julian. He is dead. I cannot believe it.’

‘How can it be? Surely he did not die of his injuries?’

‘He was in such pain.’ The tears threatened. Bess blotted her eyes angrily.

Lucie sat down, put her arm round her friend’s shoulder. ‘Tell me all.’

Amidst much hiccuping, more tears, and three more doses of brandywine, Bess recounted the horror of Julian’s last moments. ‘Anneys called it pestilence. She is wrong. I am certain of that. And I saw in your husband’s face that he doubted it, too.’

Wrong indeed. Lucie had never heard such a combination of symptoms from pestilence. ‘Owen was there?’

‘I do not know how he came to be, but I was grateful. I could not have quieted him myself.’

Lucie was curious to hear Owen’s account. It seemed to her that the symptoms indicated something quite different, not a sickness at all. But she wished to calm Bess, not upset her further. ‘Sometimes a head wound can cause troubles long after the injury. A seizure is not uncommon.’

‘With such sweating and thirst?’

‘I should think it possible.’

‘I would have guessed it his heart, not his head.’

‘Perhaps. He has suffered injury and the loss of a dear friend. All this might weaken the heart.’

‘You are trying to comfort me.’

‘I confess that I am. How can I know what brought him down of a sudden?’

Bess patted Lucie’s hand, stood up with a sigh, pressing her lower back. ‘I am calmer now. I can tell Tom the news without alarming him.’

That evening, as Owen filled squares of cloth with fragrant herbs and Lucie stitched them closed, they spoke of Julian Taverner’s death.

‘You cannot believe that was a seizure from his head wound,’ Owen said. ‘Not so long afterwards.’

Now there was a kind lie come back to haunt her. ‘I sought the first lie that came to me. I did not wish to tell her what I fear.’

‘And what is that?’

‘He claimed he had been poisoned. And unless I am much mistaken, a mortal dose of belladonna would cause such a terrible death.’

Owen nodded as he handed her the last square. ‘I had much the same thought.’

Lucie sewed the pouch closed, put the basket of work aside. As she went to the window for some air, she said, ‘I do not like to think it, my love. Not with your business at the hospital. But Julian suggested it. And with Walter de Hotter’s death, the attacks, and the thefts …’

Owen joined her, slid his arms round her. ‘What trouble has shattered St Leonard’s peace?’

Lucie pressed his hands. ‘Whatever it is’ — she turned in his arms — ‘you must take great care, my love.’

‘Why did you not tell Bess of your suspicion?’

‘Your task will be difficult enough without Bess hounding you.’

‘You are good to think of that. What is the thread that connects them, eh? Walter, Laurence, Julian, the thefts …’

‘Have you seen Ravenser?’

‘Tomorrow. I thought today to speak with Edward Munkton and Honoria de Staines.’

‘Ah. Honoria. Everyone who comes into the shop has something to say about her, and none of it kind.’

‘She claims Julian Taverner gave her the goblets. As a wedding present.’

When Bess disliked her so? ‘What did Julian say?’

‘He was dead before I could ask.’

Lucie crossed herself. ‘Do you think her a thief or a murderer?’

‘Both. Neither. I do not know.’

‘Julian spoke of a man running from Laurence’s burning house.’

‘Honoria’s missing husband?’

A jealous husband suited the woman. ‘She has been in gaol for several days.’

‘But she has the freedom of St Leonard’s by day to go about her duties.’

‘Perhaps Bess will remember Julian giving the goblets to Honoria.’

‘What was Honoria to Julian, I wonder?’

‘You can be sure Bess has an opinion about that.’

The master’s house at St Leonard’s, though merely of timber, was comfortably large and well appointed with several glazed windows. Bess’s knock was answered at once by a round man in a plain clerical gown, obviously more than just a servant. Bess adjusted her beribboned cap and stated her intention to speak with the master.

The clerk looked pained. ‘God go with you, Mistress Merchet. Your uncle was a good man. May he rest in peace.’

‘I intend to ensure that he does. Now I must see your master.’

‘Sir Richard is resting. Perhaps tomorrow would be more-’

‘Not tomorrow, no. I spoke with your master a few days ago and he invited me to come when I would. And I am here today.’

‘But on such a day, Mistress Merchet …’ Ravenser had just officiated at Julian’s burial.

‘My uncle is at rest. I cannot be until I speak with Sir Richard.’

With a sigh, the clerk invited her to stand just inside the door. He disappeared through an archway, and, faintly, Bess heard a sharp greeting, murmured words, then nothing. She glanced round, noted some bags still lying in the middle of the hall, unopened. Good. Sir Richard deserved to be inconvenienced, neglecting her uncle as he had done. She had been polite to him in public, but she meant to give him a piece of her angry mind. And something to ponder. She wandered over to the bags, crouched down, felt the leather. Supple. Expensive. Of course. They said Sir Richard set his sights as high as his uncle Thoresby’s standing. He must have many prebends as well as his posts in chancery and in the Queen’s household to pay for such leather. Bess sidled back towards the door as footsteps approached.