Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Phillippa put one hand to her mouth, one to her stomach, closed her eyes and stood silently for the space of a prayer, then turned, led Thoresby and his company into the hall, where a servant was setting out wine and food. ‘Please, Your Grace, take some refreshment while I gather the household.’ She left a medicinal scent in her wake.

Thoresby settled himself, gave his full attention to the wine. It had been a dusty ride, with the sun beating down. The hall was cool, the wine soothing. In a short while, a young woman entered with the red-headed Hugh in her arms. Clutching the woman’s skirt was a lad Gwenllian’s age.

‘Tola,’ Brother Michaelo said. ‘Granddaughter of Magda Digby, the midwife. And her son, Nym.’

Tildy, ashen-faced and hesitant, followed slowly behind carrying another baby.

‘Mistress Tildy,’ Thoresby said with a courteous incline of his head.

She was so pale, the wine-red birthmark on her left cheek seemed angry in contrast. ‘Your Grace, they say you have news for me.’

A servant took the baby from Tildy.

As gently as he could, Thoresby told her. When her hands flew to her face, he excused her from the company. ‘Grief is best first felt in private.’

Tola looked uncertain whether to follow after her stricken friend or stay.

‘Stay,’ Thoresby ordered. ‘I would see my godson.’ He glanced behind her. ‘And Gwenllian.’

Sir Robert D’Arby bustled into the room with Gwenllian. The two were dusty and flushed with exertion. ‘Forgive my delay, Your Grace. Welcome to Freythorpe Hadden.’

‘You must forgive me for not warning you of my visit. You are all well?’

Sir Robert’s grey eyebrows came together, he bowed his head. ‘The pestilence has not touched this household, though it has taken my steward and the village priest, who also served as my chaplain.’

Thoresby motioned to the elderly knight to join him at the table. Gwenllian joined Tola and the other children.

Sir Robert sat down opposite the archbishop, nodded to the servant to pour his wine. ‘What brings you south, Your Grace?’ He quenched his thirst as Thoresby described his mission.

Dame Phillippa slipped quietly into a seat at the table. ‘Is it necessary to dismantle that lovely house?’

‘The Lady Chapel will be lovelier still.’

Sir Robert was shaking his head.

Thoresby nodded to him. ‘You have something to say?’

White-haired and stooped, Sir Robert was yet forward with his opinions. He tilted his head and lifted one shoulder as if to say Remember ’twas you who asked . ‘Whence will come the workers, Your Grace? Until the pestilence has passed over the north, they hide behind their shutters.’

‘You believe they would ignore their archbishop’s summons?’

‘I believe they fear pestilence far more than the ire of any mortal man.’

‘I might offer indulgences for the work.’

‘That would help, but only for those resigned to death.’

Thoresby sat back and studied his wine. The old man might be right in that.

Phillippa shifted uneasily on the bench, her eyes worried. ‘Your Grace, my brother boldly speaks of matters about which he has no knowledge.’

‘Nevertheless, he may speak truth,’ Thoresby said. ‘But you need not worry that I shall blame Sir Robert if his prophecy proves true. And now I must ask after my godchildren. Do they mind you? Are they as well as they appear?’

Dame Phillippa gave a favourable report, to which Gilbert listened with great interest, as he was to relay it to Owen and Lucie.

As Owen passed under the statue of St Leonard, he noticed a child speaking with Dame Beatrice, the sister in charge of the orphans. A horse stood nearby, steadied by a servant. The child wore a gown fashioned from the pieces of cloth that Magda used to test dyes. Alisoun Ffulford and her horse. Sweet Heaven, what was she doing at the hospital? And dressed by Magda?

He decided it was best not to interfere.

With Simon, the York Tavern’s groom, as an armed escort, Bess Merchet set forth from Bootham Bar, north through the Forest of Galtres, to Easingwold. She had delayed the journey, waiting for a day that dawned clear with a brisk north wind. Some said the south wind brought pestilence, so she had deemed it wise to stay within the city walls, which she believed afforded a goodly protection, as much as possible. Tom, always contrary, had pointed out to her that if the walls afforded protection then the southerly wind theory could not be true, else how were folk dying who never ventured from the city. As if Bess believed that God had chosen only one avenue by which His wrath might reach the people, or claimed that it was a proven cause! But she would be a fool to ignore any theory that struck her as possibly true.

Once in the village of Easingwold it was easy to find Peter de Hotter’s shop. He sat outside, with his awning and counter down, rolls of cloth displayed. But rather than seeing to customers, of which he had none at the moment, he was mending a stool.

‘God go with you, Master Hotter.’

The man glanced up, squinting into the sunlight. ‘Do I know-’ His face suddenly brightened. ‘Mistress Merchet. What coaxed you out of the city? The fine day? A thought to escape the sickness out here in the countryside?’

‘You bring me here.’ She bent close to add softly, ‘I would speak with you about your father’s death.’

Peter dropped his tool on to the stool, placed both on the counter and rose. He was a square, fleshy man, about Bess’s height. His eyes, so close to hers, were dark, wary points beneath pale brows. ‘What is your interest in my father’s death?’

Bess glanced round. ‘Do you have an apprentice who might watch the shop for a time so that we might talk elsewhere? Where none might hear?’

The merchant moved not a muscle. ‘What is your interest?’

‘Well, now. I should think you would not mind remembering your dear father.’

‘I do not mind. What I want to know is why you are so keen to speak of him with me that you leave your place of business and come through Galtres to do so. ’Tis not everyone’s choice for a summer’s day, and in these times.’

His surliness bespoke poor business. Peter had been much pleasanter in the city. Bess revised her approach. ‘My uncle, also a corrodian of St Leonard’s, died recently.’

Peter did not relax. ‘So the count is at six corrodians now.’

‘Aye.’

He shook his head, walked over to the counter, picked up the abandoned stool, resumed his seat. ‘My father surprised a burglar is all. It has naught to do with the others.’

‘You are tallying the deaths, all the same.’

‘I have heard the rumours. Idle gossip, if you ask me. The canons were good to my father. I will not believe ill of them.’

‘They say you found nothing missing.’

‘We have finished our discussion, Mistress Merchet. I would ask you to buy something or leave.’

Bess fingered the cloth. Tattered at the edge, dusty. ‘You should reopen the shop in York, Master Hotter. Even with the pestilence upon us our trade is better than this.’

Peter bent back to his mending. ‘I shall bide my time, Mistress Merchet.’

Such discourtesy did not deserve reward. Bess departed empty-handed, and angry to have risked her health and lost a morning for naught. It was no wonder Owen resented the archbishop for assigning him such tasks.

Ravenser crushed the letter from his uncle while muttering a few choice curses. How much of a fool did Thoresby think him? See to your affairs … Remember your reputation and that of your family … The Queen’s trust … Do all you can to assist Archer in his efforts … Dispatch this affair quickly, the Queen has need of you …