Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘What has happened here, Erkenwald?’ the newcomer demanded in a high, penetrating voice.

Anneys took the opportunity to leave. Bess did not blame her. Don Cuthbert was the type of small, delicate man who became a tyrant when given power.

‘Master Warrene was your responsibility, Don Cuthbert,’ Bess said.

Cuthbert jerked as if slapped and turned towards Bess with an expression that proclaimed him surprised to learn she could speak.

Well, she would let him hear more. ‘Was it your idea to give him such a task, unaided, though he was so recently bereaved?’

The canon peered at her as if trying to identify her. ‘What had bereavement to do with the fire, goodwife? And how is it your concern?’

‘Her uncle, Master Taverner, was injured trying to save Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald explained.

‘Ah.’ The cellarer closed his eyes and gave Bess a slight bow. ‘Forgive me, I did not realise. We shall do everything we can for your uncle.’

And so he thought to dismiss her. Bess paused to ensure enough breath that she did not sputter, then drew herself up to stand taller than the canon. ‘I find little comfort in your words after seeing how you cared for my uncle’s grieving friend. Of course, it is impossible for you to imagine what one feels when deprived of one’s life mate. But if you are to accept substantial sums of money from lay folk to see them easy through their last days, you ought to make it your business to learn about such things.’ And with that, Bess turned and swept out of the hospital grounds.

As she turned down Blake Street, she paused at Walter de Hotter’s house, its windows and doors boarded up to prevent trespassing. Now another corrodian’s property had come to the hospital. She was not easy in her mind as she headed back to the York Tavern.

Nor was Don Erkenwald easy in his mind. He thanked the Lord for his foresight in writing to Sir Richard. He had lately received a message from the master of the hospital in which he agreed that it was time for him to come north and set his house in order. Pray God he arrived soon.

Magda had shooed Owen away when he’d offered to help her pull the boat up on to her rock in the Ouse. ‘Hurry home, see to thy household, Bird-eye.’

The gatekeeper at Bootham Bar confirmed Magda’s pronouncement of a fire.

‘Aye, Captain Archer. They say ’twas near the great spital.’

That would be St Leonard’s. But how near was near?

Owen ran down Stonegate. Once in St Helen’s Square, whence he could see the apothecary, he paused to catch his breath and calm himself. The smoke was to the north. The queue of folk spilling out of the shop was waiting for service, not moving pails of water. God was merciful.

As his worry faded, Owen grew more conscious of his filthy clothes; his tunic and leggings reeked of the grave. He turned down Davygate. Next to the shop, the narrow end of his large house gave on to the street, with only a tiny window facing out from the jettied second storey. He could tell nothing of his household’s welfare from the street.

‘Captain Owen, welcome home. Did you find the little girl?’

Owen squinted, his eye not yet adjusted to the gloom in the entryway. At the end of the little passage stood a vague form, lit from behind by the windows of the hall. By her voice, he knew it was Kate, their new serving girl, a younger sister to their housekeeper and nurse, Tildy, who was at Freythorpe with Gwenllian and Hugh. Kate was learning her job well, but she had no talent for silence. Owen already wearied of her continual chatter. ‘Aye, Kate, we found the girl, buried her family. The household is fine? No one was injured in the fire?’

Kate shook her head. ‘’Twas a fire at St Leonard’s. The house of a corrodian caught fire. He is dead, his house ruined.’

‘Who?’

‘Master Warrene.’

‘So soon after his wife. It seems a heavy burden on one family.’ And on St Leonard’s. John Rudby, Walter de Hotter, Laurence and Matilda de Warrene — four corrodians now dead. More fuel for the rumours. ‘Mistress Lucie and Jasper are in the shop?’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Thank God we are all safe.’ Owen crossed himself, as did Kate. ‘Now I must make myself presentable for Mistress Lucie. Can you bring water up to the solar?’

‘At once, Captain!’ Kate bobbed away, appearing for a moment clearly lit by the hall casements. She was a short, round, muscular young woman, yet light and quick on her feet, with rosy cheeks, unruly blonde hair, and an almost comically wide mouth that seemed to smile even when in repose.

As Owen climbed to the solar he realised that her cheeriness jarred for the very reason he should appreciate it: few folk found cause to smile or laugh at present. A gloom hung over the city with the return of the Great Mortality. Kate was not ignorant of it — she had wept with relief a few days before when she’d returned from visiting her siblings, the little ones left at home. ‘They are all well, Mistress Lucie,’ she had cried, and collapsed on her mistress’s shoulder. Lucie had commented that evening that she felt they had adopted a daughter, not hired another servant. Owen had smiled at her ambivalent tone. And then they had grown silent, thinking of their own absent daughter.

Owen found the shop crowded. Lucie and her young apprentice, Jasper, worked together behind the counter. A half-dozen customers waited in various tempers. The air was heavy with warring scents. It had been so the previous day when Owen had spent the afternoon dispensing the confused assortment of protections from the pestilence that folk wanted. There were the fragrant sachets such as Magda had given him; balls of ambergris for the wealthy, held to the nose to prevent the intrusion of infectious vapours; foul-smelling herbs to be strewn in doorways and beneath windows; sweet herbs to be strewn in bedchambers to ward off the devil; vinegar-soaked sponges to hold to the nose — and those were only the most common requests. Each day brought new recipes.

Lucie’s voice was calm, her hands steady, but her face was ashen, her temples damp. She had just finished with a customer and was about to greet Mistress Miller. Slipping behind the counter, Owen drew Lucie aside and quietly asked her to step into the back room with him for a moment.

‘I have customers, as you can see,’ she said in a soft but firm voice as she blotted her damp forehead with her sleeve.

‘Jasper can take them for a moment. We have matters to discuss.’

A flash of interest, but still Lucie hesitated. ‘We are falling behind even with both of us working.’

‘Then I shall help him while you rest in the garden,’ Owen said.

Lucie glanced at him, frowned, then turned back to Mistress Miller, who looked so forlorn that Owen felt guilty for interrupting.

‘Is it Master Miller’s trouble?’ Lucie asked.

The pale woman nodded, leaned forward to say softly, ‘Aye, still bladder-stones, Mistress Wilton. Harry’s been soaking in sweetwater baths, and they do ease his pain nights so he might sleep.’

‘It is a long, painful process, I fear.’

The miller’s wife shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ve not come to complain, Mistress Wilton. Harry sits there nights and says “God bless Apothecary” over and over. I’ve come for more mallow, is what. Lot fell off shelf and dog ate it.’

As Lucie turned to fetch the mallow jar, Owen saw her bite back a smile.

He leaned over the counter. ‘How is the dog?’

‘Empty!’ Mistress Miller said with a loud guffaw, then covered her mouth to hide her rotten teeth as she continued to shake with laughter.

‘He would be that,’ Owen said.

Lucie nudged him out of the way. ‘Do you need something for the dog?’