Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘Remember,’ Wulfstan whispered, his eyes on Henry as the monk lowered him and fussed with his pillows.

‘What must Brother Henry remember?’ Jasper asked, bending his head close to the old monk’s lips. ‘Tell me all you can, Brother Wulfstan.’

Wulfstan’s words were unconnected — the medicine bag, the attack, Spen Lane, lancing, growing too weak to shrive the man.

‘I must go to Captain Owen and tell him this,’ Jasper told Henry.

‘Have a care. And return in the morning, if you will.’

‘If he-’ Jasper took a deep breath, rushed the words, ‘I do not want to come back and find he has gone.’

‘I promise you I shall send word if he seems to be failing quickly.’

The Mawdeleyns lived near the King’s Fishpond. The muddy banks from which the water receded in high summer stank on hot, sunny days. Bess was thus delighted to be greeted with the scent of meadowsweet when the Mawdeleyn’s daughter opened the door to her. The pleasant scent grew stronger as Bess entered the house, crushing the herb beneath her feet.

Felice, her wimple and apron snowy white against her olive complexion and russet gown, rose from her spinning to greet Bess with a warm smile. She was a comely woman, graceful in her movements, even-featured, with perhaps more colour than men cared for — except her uncle. ‘I have expected this visit ever since your uncle died,’ Felice said when her daughter had withdrawn after carrying in a flagon of wine and two lovely Italian blue glass goblets.

Having prepared a speech that would draw Felice out, Bess found herself momentarily at a loss for words. And curious about the goblets. Were not the missing ones blue?

‘You have come about Julian, of course?’ Felice asked as she poured.

‘I have, Mistress Mawdeleyn, yes, I have. Forgive me. I did not think you would be so …’ She searched for the right word.

‘Shameless?’

‘Oh, dear me, no! I thought you would fear trouble if we spoke openly, is all.’

‘Trouble? Now he is dead? The trouble happened ten years ago.’

Ten years. An enduring affair. ‘Your husband knew?’

Felice blushed, but did not lower her eyes. ‘A husband knows when his wife has been bedded, Mistress Merchet. Unless he sleeps in another house and never gazes upon his wife.’ She stood up. ‘I will get his things.’

‘His things? What is this? Is that why you thought I came? To collect-’ Bess shook her head. ‘What things?’

‘His gifts to me.’ Felice lifted one of the Italian goblets. ‘These were part of a set. He gave the rest to St Leonard’s, but he said he wished to surround me with beautiful things.’

She and Honoria de Staines. Still, Bess had not known her uncle could be so tender. ‘And so they should remain. I did not come to rob you, Mistress Mawdeleyn, neither of your memories or your gifts. Whatever he gave you he meant for you to have. I came because I hoped you might help me. To be frank, Uncle Julian believed he had been poisoned.’

The generous lips rounded in surprise, the dark eyes seemed darker yet. Felice slipped back down in her chair with hand to throat. ‘Dear God.’

Bess believed the emotion to be sincere. ‘Forgive me for distressing you. But I hoped he might have confided in you.’

‘Confided?’

‘He spoke little of the past to me. I know of naught that might support his accusation. Do you know of any enemies he might have made?’

Felice lifted her cup to her lips daintily, then took a decidedly undainty drink, head tilted back. When she set down the goblet, Bess saw that it was empty. A clean linen cloth appeared from a sleeve to dab at the full lips. ‘Enemies. Blood enemies, for someone to poison him.’ Felice frowned up at the ceiling. ‘He once told me of something for which he had done penance for many years. But he begged me to keep my silence. Indeed, this spring he reminded me of the need to keep his secret.’

‘Surely now he’s dead …’

Felice considered her hands. She held them so a gold and silver ring caught the light. Undoubtedly another of Uncle Julian’s gifts. ‘If he was poisoned,’ Felice said, ‘I would have his murderer found and punished.’ She raised her head, her chin forward, her eyes sad. ‘In Scarborough, before the death of his wife and daughter, Julian was a smuggler.’

‘So I have heard. But it was more like he thieved from the smugglers.’

‘I am glad you knew that Julian was not always honest. I did not wish to be the one to tell you.’

‘But that was long ago. To what end would any of them come to York at this late date and murder him, as well as Laurence de Warrene and Walter de Hotter?’

‘I can think of no cause. And I know nothing of Master Hotter. Julian never spoke of him. I do know that Julian and Laurence de Warrene worked with others from time to time. One in particular was someone who had knowledge of the families from whom they stole. Adam Carter. And it was his death for which your uncle did penance for many, many years. He believed that his own wife and child died for his sins.’

‘A Carter? One of the Carters of Scarborough? Thieving rogues all of them. He was likely stealing from his own. But why?’

‘He called himself a Carter, but he was a bastard. His father would not acknowledge him — though he thought to ensure Adam’s future by employing him. Which to a proud man was applying vinegar to the wound.’

‘And so he stole from his father?’

‘With Julian and Laurence.’

‘What happened?’

‘He took ever greater risks. Julian and Laurence had families. They were more cautious. One night the tide caught them still struggling along a cliff with a barrel. Julian and Laurence abandoned it. Adam began to follow them, but turned back and tried to save it. He was caught by the tide. Julian and Laurence did not realise what had happened until Adam’s body washed up on the shore.’

‘Faith, a terrible thing. But I cannot see how his greed was their fault.’

‘Julian did not at first either. But when his wife and daughter were lost at sea, he saw it as a sign from God. That is why he worked among the victims of the pestilence. It was his penance.’

Bess did not speak for a time. She had known of their deaths, had known of her uncle’s penance, but she had not understood why he blamed himself.

Felice poured more wine, then sat twisting the ring on her finger round and round. ‘What made it all the worse was that Laurence had kept Adam’s booty in his house. The Carters would have grown suspicious had Adam openly owned things he could not afford on his pittance of a wage. He had planned someday to leave Scarborough, taking the lovely things he had hoarded with him. When he died, Julian and Laurence shared his spoils.’ Felice lifted her goblet. ‘These were Adam Carter’s. When I first heard the story, I urged Julian to give the rest of the man’s treasures to St Leonard’s.’

Bess found it a disturbing tale. ‘And did my uncle give them to the hospital?’

Felice’s eyes were sad. ‘I believe he did. He was a good man, Mistress Merchet.’

‘I had always thought him so.’ Of late she had not been so certain. ‘Adam Carter’s hoard. Would it have included altar cloths and an ivory chess set?’

‘Why? Do they have something to do with Julian’s death?’

‘Mayhap.’

Felice ran her finger down the side of the goblet, seemingly studying it with great intent. After a long pause, she returned to Bess. ‘I remember nothing about an altar cloth. But Julian once offered me a chess set. I know not whether it was ivory. Or if it was part of Adam’s things. I told Julian my family had no leisure to learn such games.’