Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

In the morning, Owen stopped to see the bailiff Geoffrey before he went on to the hospital.

Geoffrey rubbed his forehead hard, shook his head. ‘The old infirmarian? He should not go abroad is what I say. ’Tis the empty streets, eh? And the empty houses. No witnesses to trouble. Gives a knave courage. Bastard.’ He spat in the corner. ‘Twenty years ago we boarded up the houses. But folk leave and come back. Fearing the Lord’s wrath, eh? Bury the dead. Stay for a while, then take fright and run off again. We cannot know who is gone for good.’

It was more than Owen wished to know. ‘I will be on my way, then.’

‘They say your children are with Sir Robert.’

‘Aye. We thought it best.’

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘These be terrible times, Captain. Unsavoury characters abroad. Old men should keep to their homes.’

Owen did not bother to comment. A bell tolled as he walked down Blake Street. He was surprised he still noticed.

A weary Magda trudged home through warm summer rain in the middle of the morning. She had spent the night at the sick-bed of a child, making progress, with two of her boils lanced, when suddenly the mother forbade more. ‘Hear her screams. You make it worse.’ Worse, yes: if Magda could not lance all five large boils, the lancing of the two had been unnecessary torture for the tiny creature. ’Twas all or naught, but the mother would not hear reason. She could not understand why the path to healing should be through pain.

Still, Magda did not allow herself to despair. That brought weakness, and this was no time to feel the years upon her. Some food and a rest were all she could afford. That must suffice.

Magda was not pleased to see the Ffulford nag tied up before her door, and Alisoun sitting on the bench under the eaves.

‘What wind carried thee here, child?’

The brown face peered up through a tangle of hair. ‘You left the nag. I can hide from my kin, but I cannot hide her .’ Alisoun chewed on the corner of her mouth, picked at the ragged edge of her apron with filthy fingers.

‘Thou thinkst to stable her here?’

‘I would let you ride her.’

Magda barked with amusement. ‘Thou dost not understand the cost of feeding such a creature away from thy pastures. And where wilt thou be, Horsetrader?’

‘I need an escort into the city. A lone child — they will think I am a beggar. Or a thief with the nag.’

‘Aye, ’tis true. Thou’rt requesting something?’

The child dropped her chin to her chest, worked in silence on the unravelling of her apron. Rain pooled on the rock beside her. Soon she would be soaked.

As would Magda. ‘Come within.’

Alisoun shook out her handiwork as she rose. ‘Would you see me through the gate?’

Magda touched the child’s matted hair, tsked. ‘Thou needst tidying.’

‘What does it matter?’

‘What is thy business in the city?’ Magda held the door wide, noted how the child glanced anxiously at the nag, particularly at a pouch hanging to one side. ‘Thy nag is safe here. Come inside or stay without, ’tis no matter.’

The door was closing behind Magda when Alisoun grabbed it. Within, she eyed the roots and plants hanging in the rafters to dry, the rows of jars on shelves along the walls, the curtained alcoves. ‘Why do you need to know my business?’

Magda sat down on a stool at the fire, stoked it, swung the kettle over it. ‘No need.’

The girl stood by the fire, watching Magda toss herbs into the broth.

‘Art thou hungry?’

‘A little.’

Magda nodded at a stool. ‘Sit.’

Alisoun obeyed, though she perched on the edge of her seat as if about to spring up and run. ‘Can you get me through Bootham Bar?’

The Riverwoman rose with a grunt, poured herself a small cup of watered wine, sat down again to stir the broth. ‘What dost thou offer in fee?’

‘Fee?’

Magda took a mouthful of wine, tilted her head back, swallowed. ‘The sick need Magda. Thou hast given no good cause for her to neglect them to escort thee into the city.’ She set down her cup, ladled broth into a bowl, handed it to Alisoun.

‘What do you want?’ the girl asked as she sniffed the broth.

‘What wouldst thou part with in exchange, that is the question.’

The child paused with the spoon almost to her lips.

Magda waited patiently.

‘You can have my horse,’ spoken just before the spoon delivered the broth. The child gasped at the heat, but was soon spooning quickly.

Magda kept her silence until the child’s bowl was empty.

‘Will you accept that?’

‘Thou thinkst it a gift to present Magda with a creature so costly to feed?’

‘I thought it was generous.’

Magda’s barking laugh startled Alisoun. ‘Generous, aye. Far too generous. Hast aught dear enough, but not so dear?’

‘I have nothing else.’

‘What of the pack on thy horse? Is there naught inside thou mightst part with?’

‘What do you know of it?’

‘Magda knows what she sees.’

The child put down the bowl, crossed to the door. ‘I can sneak in.’

‘Take thy horse. Magda has no need of it.’

Alisoun slipped out the door. Magda dipped brown bread in her broth, sucked on it, chewed. In a little while the door opened.

‘Would this be enough?’ The girl stood in the doorway, holding out a folded cloth.

‘Thou hast feet.’

Alisoun brought it to her. Magda put down her bowl, took some of the cloth in her hands. Even her calloused fingertips could feel the delicate embroidery, the gold thread. A ridiculously fine item to take in trade for a short walk to the gate, but the child must learn the price of what she asked.

‘Aye. This will do.’

The gatehouse of Freythorpe Hadden was a wattle and daub structure meant to impress rather than withstand attack. It stood on a stone bridge arching over a stream. A young man stood before it, barring the way with a pike. ‘Get thee gone, sir. We want no visitors.’ As he caught sight of the livery, his expression grew uncertain.

Thoresby’s man Gilbert rode forward. ‘Tell your master that John Thoresby, Archbishop of York, has come with news from the city.’

The young man turned to Thoresby. ‘Your Grace the Archbishop?’

Thoresby inclined his head in a slight nod.

The young man dropped his gaze, bowed while crossing himself.

‘ Benedicte , my son.’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I have orders to turn away all strangers. But I am certain that Sir Robert did not mean you.’ The young man lowered his pike, stepped aside. The company rode through the gatehouse. The lad mounted his own horse and rode past them to announce their approach.

Thoresby was pleased by the caution shown thus far.

Freythorpe Hadden was a substantial stone and timber house of two rambling storeys with a tower at one end. In the arched doorway stood Dame Phillippa, Sir Robert D’Arby’s sister and housekeeper. Elderly though she was, she stood straight and proud, her widow’s wimple stubbornly white. As Thoresby dismounted and approached, Dame Phillippa turned her head slightly, spoke to someone behind her. When she turned back, her eyes were anxious.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, making her obeisance. ‘It is an honour to welcome you to Freythorpe.’

‘ Benedicte , Dame Phillippa. I bring gifts for my godchildren and news that all are well in their household.’

‘God is merciful,’ Phillippa said, crossing herself. Her eyes brightened. ‘I feared ill tidings.’

‘Not all my news will be welcome. For Mistress Wilton’s maid servant I bring news of the death of her youngest brother.’