Candace Robb: The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘Alas, Sherburne. Is it not a lovely house?’

‘I have many such houses. But the minster does not have a complete Lady Chapel. The quarries near York are depleted of the stone I need. And I wish to complete it now. So that you may come north to see it.’

Phillippa patted his hand. ‘That will not be, my friend. Too many who were too young to die have gone. It is my turn. God may let Richard recover if I go quietly.’ Her eldest son, the Black Prince, had suffered a wasting sickness for two years. Her second son Lionel, Duke of Clarence, had died the previous year, and her third son’s wife, the lovely Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, had died in the autumn. Many said it was the weight of sorrow that had finally broken the Queen’s spirit.

‘I would stay with you, confessor or no.’

Phillippa closed her eyes, gave one imperious shake of her swollen head. ‘You must go north. Complete your Lady Chapel. Perhaps it may yet save York from the pestilence.’

Thoresby and Ravenser dined at the King’s table on the evening before their departure. As the roast was set before them, a messenger hurried into the hall. He went straight to the King and knelt behind his chair. Edward turned stiffly, leaned, nodded. The messenger gave his news softly. But Edward evidently saw no need for discretion. He threw up his hands and shouted, ‘Well done! Well done! There is some gold in this for you, by God.’ As the messenger was escorted to a seat at a lower table, Edward turned to his puzzled company. ‘She is safe delivered of a daughter. Mistress Alice has this night been safe delivered of a daughter.’ The King rose to his feet unsteadily. Clutching the back of his chair with one hand, he raised his cup in the other and shouted, ‘Let us drink to Mistress Alice.’ His eyes were locked with Thoresby’s.

The archbishop raised his cup. ‘God be thanked for a safe delivery,’ he managed to say without choking on bile.

All drank to Alice Perrers and her daughter.

The two laboured through the high grass along the riverbank, sweating in the hazy sunshine. There was no breeze to ease them once they left the river. They were chided by frogs and bees disturbed by their passage and that of the boat they pulled up on to the bank behind them. When they had tethered the boat to a sapling, they set off across the fallow field leading to the cottage. Nettles caught at his leggings, her skirt, as if urging a retreat. Gnats and flies hovered close, tasting their sweat, then followed along in a noisy cloud. Crickets warned of their approach. Close by a horse whinnied and stomped.

Owen Archer and Magda Digby exchanged uneasy looks; they found the farm too silent. Absent were the sounds they strained to hear: those of a family going about its daily work — a scythe whistling through the tall grass, a bucket clanking against the side of the well as the groaning rope lifted it, children squealing in play. Though Owen and Magda had been told that they would be greeted with silence, they had hoped to find Duncan Ffulford and his family hard at work, proving the fisherman’s tale to have been fermented in a bottle.

Owen paused at the edge of the field, swatting flies from his face as he swept his head from side to side to study the yard; he had the use of only his right eye, his left scarred, blind, and patched, and thus he must compensate for half the range of vision with which he had once been blessed. His sweep took in a thatch-roofed cottage, its door yawning wide, no smoke drifting from the hole in the roof’s centre; a dusty yard with a horseless cart sitting as if being prepared for use; a barn and other outbuildings behind the cottage, quiet but for the impatient horse, likely in the barn.

Owen turned to his companion. ‘Where’s the child gone to, I wonder?’ The fisherman had claimed a girl crouched on the riverbank, calling to him as he drifted by that her mother and the babies were dead, and her father too sick to help her bury them.

Magda shaded her eyes with a gnarled, sun-browned hand. She faced the barn. ‘Thou hearest the beast, Bird-eye?’

‘Aye. ’Tis little noise to mask it.’

‘Likely the child keeps it company.’

‘Should we first go to her, then?’

‘Nay. ’Tis best Magda and thee know the worst. Into the house with thee. But first attend thy protection. There is no wind to carry off the vapours.’ From a pouch at her waist Magda drew two cloth bags filled with scent, handed one to Owen, held the other over her mouth and nose. These would protect them from the noxious vapours that spread disease.

Owen looked down at the bag with doubt. ‘And who holds these to our faces whilst we bury the dead?’

Magda met his argument with a sniff. ‘Cover thy face, thou contentious Welshman. Provident care when thou canst take it is better than none at all.’ Without more ado, the tiny midwife strode across the dusty yard and stepped into the cottage.

Owen lifted the bag to his face and followed, having found it wise in the past to take Magda’s advice. He ducked through the low doorway.

Within, the cot was dark, the only light coming from chinks in the thatch and walls, illuminating the dust that swirled with their every movement and the flies that swarmed round the four bodies, two children lovingly tucked in the wooden-framed bed beside a woman, and a man lying on the floor near the remnants of a fire. Magda crouched down by the bed, lifted the covers with a stick to examine the bodies. Even through the scented bag Owen smelled the putrefaction, gagged, retreated to the yard to catch his breath.

Magda joined him. ‘’Tis the manqualm, Bird-eye.’

Owen crossed himself. ‘Let us find the child. She might tell us where to find a priest.’

Magda, hands on hips, squinted up into Owen’s good eye. ‘Thou thinkst to find a priest will say the proper prayers? Thou wouldst take such time with this?’

‘They died unshriven, I’ve no doubt. And they should be buried in consecrated ground. ’Tis my duty as a Christian man to do what I may to help them to Heaven. I know it is not your way, Magda, but it is mine. And theirs. I must try.’

Magda did not argue, perhaps in thanks for his agreeing to accompany her on this mission. Heading towards the barn, she paused at the cart. ‘Duncan thought to load his family into the cart and bury them? Take them to the priest? Or had he thought to flee it with them?’ Magda grasped the side of the cart, touched her forehead to it, as if suddenly weary. ‘And the worst of it still to come, Bird-eye. Thy Lucie will work from dawn to dusk, as will Magda, and what availeth it?’

‘Come, Magda. Let us find the child.’ Owen walked past the cart, across the rutted yard to the barn. The horse began once more to whinny and stomp. One ear to the door, Owen sought the sound of another living thing within. He heard the rustle of straw. Perhaps the horse, perhaps the child.

The barn door was warped by the river damp. Owen used his strength to lift it and swing it wide. Peering in, he saw an old nag in a stall. He approached it slowly, calming the uneasy creature with murmured reassurances. As Owen reached the nag, he picked up a cloth, rubbed the horse gently until it quieted.

Magda had followed him.

Owen patted the nag. ‘Duncan Ffulford was better off than I had thought, to own a horse.’

‘Aye, and he was proud of her. She carries her years lightly thanks to their tender care. Now, be quiet, Bird-eye.’ Magda stood in the middle of the barn, listening. Her multicoloured gown seemed to flicker in the pied light. ‘She is above.’ Magda motioned for Owen to precede her. ‘Her name is Alisoun.’

As Owen stepped away from the horse, it nipped him gently on the arm, calling him back. Even the beast feared the unnatural quiet of the farm. Owen crept up the ladder to the hayloft, tucking his head down to avoid a pitchfork or knife. In times like this, a child on her own would do well to protect herself. As Owen was about to clear the ladder with his head, he said softly, ‘Peace, Alisoun. I come in peace.’ He held his hands up to show the child he had no weapon. ‘A fisherman told us you needed help.’ He prayed God it was indeed Alisoun up there.