Candace Robb - King's Bishop

‘Ah. Well. If Tom Merchet says it is so, it is indeed.’ Lucie tried to hide her disappointment. She understood Jasper’s excitement. His friends had been much impressed when they’d learned that Owen was to lead a company of the King’s men to Fountains Abbey. He had already asked and received permission to hand Owen his stirrup cup at departure, which would guarantee that he met the men when they were in full gear. The boys would later hang on Jasper’s every word as he described the company’s dress, their weapons, their speech, and Owen’s part in the expedition.

Owen’s part; that was what troubled Lucie. The company’s arrival meant Owen’s departure was imminent. And despite her confiding to Bess that Owen was driving her mad with his litany of worries, that she prayed for a respite, Lucie did not wish him to go. If this was the answer to her prayers, they had been misinterpreted. She had meant to pray that he would realise their little family was as safe as any family in York, not that he would leave the city.

Already she missed him, thinking of the cold bed, the nights when she needed his ear and must write instead, the countless possible dangers he might encounter that would haunt her throughout her days and nights while he was gone: Scotsmen on the road — they were not wont to observe the King’s peace; packs of wolves — folk said they were hungry after the hard winter and moving in larger packs than usual; men jealous of Owen’s favour with the powerful John Thoresby who might cause an ‘accident’ in order to take his place; even such mundane matters as spoiled food, and no one with her skill with physicks to care for him if he should fall ill. When Owen was at home Lucie did not fret over such things, but the moment he rode out of the city her imagination betrayed her. She had thought it would be easier to part with him in time, but instead it grew worse. He was more and more a part of her. And now there was Gwenllian. She was growing so quickly. He would miss so much while he was away.

‘Will they come here directly?’ Jasper wondered, climbing up on to a stool with Crowder in his arms. The ginger kitten swatted at a fly that buzzed past. Jasper lunged to catch the unbalanced kitten and they both crashed to the floor, the stool following with a clatter. The kitten squirmed out of Jasper’s grasp and hissed at the stool. Jasper lay on his back and giggled.

Lucie stood there, hands on hips, knowing she should caution Jasper that Crowder was safer tumbling through the air than clutched tightly, but too thankful for the boy’s laughter to bring herself to chide him. ‘I doubt they will come here directly. They have ridden a long way and will wish to rest.’

Jasper sat up, brushed himself off. Bits of dust and herbs clung to his pale hair. ‘I should like to see them come across the bridge.’ Eyes wide, smile eager, he willed her with all his energy to consent.

‘Why?’ Lucie teased, picking the debris out of his hair. ‘You have seen King’s men before.’

Jasper’s pale eyebrows came together; he stretched his hands towards her, palms up in supplication though she had not yet said no. ‘I want to see the men the Captain is going to lead.’

Lucie made a great business of whisking the last bits of debris from Jasper’s hair. ‘But surely you mean to be there to watch when they depart? You will see them then.’

Jasper’s shoulders slumped, his head drooped. ‘And I have work to do.’

Lucie could tease him no further. ‘You may go as soon as you tell me how fares Mistress Thorpe.’ Jasper’s errand had been to Gwenllian’s first godmother, the wife of Lucie’s guildmaster. Mistress Thorpe had taken a fall with a cauldron of hot washing water a few weeks past and had scalded her left foot. Jasper had delivered a second jar of salve for the terrible blistering.

‘Mistress Thorpe says that she has not awakened with the pain in two nights, which is a blessing. And she was most grateful you had sent the salve. She blessed you for knowing she had used the last of it this morning. She has the children helping with the washing and cooking and did not know when she could spare one to come to the shop.’

Lucie could tell nothing from that; Gwen Thorpe believed that to complain of pain was to criticise God’s judgement. Even when she had almost died in childbirth last year she had suffered the pain with a white-lipped, white-knuckled silence that had so angered Magda Digby, the midwife had threatened to leave the birth chamber, for how was she to help if she did not know the condition of her patient. But Lucie knew Jasper was a keen observer. ‘Did you see her foot?’

Jasper shook his head. ‘She did not show me.’

Still badly blistered then, else she would have shown him. It was time for Magda Digby to visit Gwen Thorpe. ‘All right. Off with you.’

Lucie stepped back into the kitchen to check on Gwen’s namesake and found Owen lounging on a bench, cup in hand. The cradle beside him was empty. ‘Where is Gwenllian?’ The excited pitch of her own voice surprised Lucie.

Owen grinned. ‘And you call me a worrier. I am tempted to tell you a tale of Scotsmen crashing into the kitchen, but the truth is Tildy took Gwenllian out in the garden to watch the clouds. No harm will come to her.’

Lucie trusted Tildy; it was coming upon Owen unaware and remembering the separation to come that had tightened her throat, but perhaps it was better to let Owen think she was just a fretting mother. ‘Is it warm enough for Gwenllian in the garden?’

Owen sat up, handed Lucie his cup to taste. ‘You must trust Tildy, my love. She is very good with our child. You cannot do everything in this house, though I’m damned if I know how to keep you from trying.’

Lucie took a sip of the cool well water, handed Owen the cup. ‘It is Tildy who tries to do everything in the house. I worry that with cooking, cleaning, and tending Gwenllian she is overworked.’

‘Tildy will tell you when she has need of help, my love. When she fears that things are not as perfect as they might be.’ They both knew that Tildy would ask for assistance only if she felt the quality of her work was disappointing them.

Lucie studied her husband, so handsome, so much a part of her. He was sweaty and covered with a fine film of rich earth; he looked content. ‘The work is going well?’

‘I have one more bed to prepare. God help me, the rocks I dug out last year are back, and with a year’s extra growth.’ His damp linen shirt clung to his muscular chest and back as he flexed and stretched.

Lucie never tired of looking at him, such a fine man. Already she missed him so keenly that the quiet, companionable joy of the moment pained her. ‘Rocks growing indeed, Owen! I’ll ask you to hold your tongue with nonsense such as that or Gwenllian and Jasper will grow up with unholy notions of God’s creation.’ She could see at once that her effort to sound jolly had failed.

Owen’s eye held hers. ‘What is wrong?’

Lucie allowed herself to go to him, stroke his wiry dark hair. ‘The King’s company has entered the city. We’ve little time together before you leave.’

Owen wiped his hands on a cloth, draped it over his lap, clean side up, and pulled Lucie down. ‘I won’t pretend I’m sorry to hear you are already missing me. I’ve been thinking you wanted me out from underfoot.’

Lucie took a cloth and gently wiped his face. ‘You drive me mad at times, ‘tis true, my love. But I would have you no other way. And I would have you home and safe, not riding north in this uncertain season on the King’s business.’

Owen grabbed the hand that held the cloth, kissed Lucie’s palm. ‘How do you know the company is here?’

‘Tom Merchet told Jasper.’

The bell on the shop door announced a customer. With a groan, Lucie began to rise. Owen held her down. ‘Let Jasper see to them.’