Candace Robb: The Riddle Of St Leonard's

She arrived in time to witness tearful greetings. Lucie’s were not entirely tears of joy as she clutched Hugh to her.

‘Sir Robert is ill,’ Thoresby was telling her, ‘and thus your aunt and I thought it best the children be brought away from him.’

‘Pestilence?’ Lucie asked in a whisper.

‘No. A chill brought on by a tumble into the pond. It seems he was jousting with Gwenllian.’

The dark-haired two year old sat in her father’s lap, solemnly listening. Owen stroked her hair, curly and wiry as his own. ‘That does not mean you are to blame, Gwenllian.’

She said nothing, but grabbed Owen’s hand and held on tight.

‘Is he very ill?’ Lucie asked.

Thoresby motioned to Michaelo to take the basket to the kitchen. ‘At his age, any illness is difficult, Mistress Wilton. Dame Phillippa seemed anxious, but I think it was the children worried her.’

Perhaps it was not the time to interrupt, Bess thought. She was backing out of the doorway when Owen noticed her.

‘Come in, Bess, come in.’

‘Your Grace,’ she bobbed a curtsey. ‘I had to come see whether my eyes tricked me.’ She gave the children hugs, glanced over the well set table. So there was to be a feast.

‘She has sharp eyes, Your Grace,’ Owen said. ‘And was a great help to me in finding the truth about her uncle’s death.’

‘Which I have yet to hear, neighbour,’ Bess reminded him.

‘You are a woman of many gifts, Mistress Merchet,’ Thoresby said. ‘I shall remember you if ever I need another spy.’

Bess shook her head until her ribbons bobbed. That was the last thing she wished. ‘I pray you, think not of me for such work, Your Grace. Managing the tavern is more to my liking.’ But it was pleasing to be praised for something other than her housekeeping. ‘Though I do admit I have a certain knack for it.’