Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

Owen and Alfred made for the abbey’s postern gate. “Has a man come through here? Scratched face?”

The guard grinned. “Aye. He showed me the nun’s handiwork.”

Alfred snickered, but Owen did not laugh. “How long ago?”

The guard stood to attention. “Just moments.”

“Alone?”

“Aye. Unless he was trying to catch up with the three who came through earlier.”

“What three?”

The guard shrugged. “Said they were your men, coming to report on the nun.”

Damn it, Edmund was walking right into a trap. “Armed?”

The guard dropped his head, rubbed his chin. “Aye. Daggers and swords.”

“One of them fair-haired, thin, with crooked teeth?”

The guard nodded.

Owen and Alfred hurried out of the gate, Alfred muttering that it was proof Edmund had murdered Colin and was using his friends once more to escape his punishment.

As they came through Bootham Bar, Owen spun round and snapped, “Stop judging him before you know the facts! You talk like a simpleton sometimes. I despair of you.”

Silenced and sullen, Alfred trudged down Petergate behind Owen. But he perked up when Owen slowed and whispered, “Trouble ahead.”

Two men were piling apples into a lopsided cart just past Lop Lane. Owen noted their clothing – the subtle livery of Captain Sebastian. He glanced down Lop Lane, wondering if they had tricked Edmund into heading that way. But the overturned cart was an old trick that Edmund should not have fallen for.

The men from the cart saw Owen’s patch and froze, then leaped over the apples and came for him and Alfred. The four circled each other, daggers ready; but when the Bootham gatekeeper spied the trouble and came running, Sebastian’s men tried to bolt down Lop Lane. Owen and Alfred gave chase, and by the time the gatekeeper reached them they had wrestled the men to the ground and were busy binding their hands.

“Where’s Jack?” Owen demanded of one.

Despite his bound hands and Owen’s dagger at his throat, the man sneered, his resistance unwavering.

Owen swore and sheathed his dagger. “We waste time, Alfred. Come along.” They left the men in the custody of the gatekeeper and turned down Lop Lane. In the dark, Owen paused, listened. He heard the grunts of wrestlers up ahead. Signalling Alfred to stay right behind him, Owen crept forward, his dagger drawn. At the Blake Street crossing two figures struggled, daggers flashing. Owen flattened himself against the corner building, shadowed by the second storey overhang, and watched the two men.

As one of them twisted away from his opponent with a cry of pain, Owen recognised Edmund. The other man had firm hold of Edmund’s arm and bent it behind him to pull him back, then throw him down on the ground. It was Jack, ugly Jack from Scarborough, little Maddy’s murderer.

As Jack stomped on Edmund’s back and tossed his dagger aside to grab his sword, Alfred started. “The scabbard at that bastard’s waist,” he hissed in Owen’s ear. “Matches the dagger I had off Colin’s murderer.” Before Owen could hold him back, Alfred leaped out, his sword drawn, and with a blood-chilling cry charged Jack, who spun round to face his attacker. Alfred chopped down on the murderer’s unshielded shoulder just as Jack sliced into Alfred’s side.

When Lucie opened the shop door, her face deathly white with fear, Owen cursed himself for coming straight here without first cleaning off the blood. “Thank Heaven you’re alive,” Lucie cried, throwing her arms round Owen. “How badly are you hurt?”

He felt her trembling. “I am unharmed,” he lied. But she discovered his bleeding hand soon enough. “It is nothing. A struggle with an apple cart. It is Edmund and Alfred who need attention.”

Lucie led them all back to the kitchen, where Tildy was already stoking the fire. “Jasper has gone for water.”

“See to Alfred first,” Edmund said, sinking down onto a bench. “My wounds are less serious and far more deserved.”

Jasper struggled in with a bucket of water. With huge eyes he looked round at the bleeding men and crossed himself.

“We are not half as bad as we look, lad,” Owen assured him.

“Come, Jasper,” Tildy said. “Bring the water, then see to the Captain’s hand.”

Jasper cleaned Owen’s palm with a calendula astringent, then applied an adder’s tongue poultice and wound a clean cloth round his hand.

Owen was amazed by the boy’s gentle assurance. “You have learned much from Lucie and Wulfstan.”

Jasper nodded, but did not take his eyes from his work. “I think this will heal quickly,” he said solemnly.

Lucie and Tildy packed Alfred’s deep wound with a blood-stanching paste and bandaged it. But Lucie was not confident. “He needs Wulfstan’s care, Owen. We must get him there today.”

“I can go nowhere until I answer to the bailiff.” Owen slumped on a bench beside Edmund. “We have broken the peace of York. A man is dead – we must answer for it.” He turned to Edmund. “You must answer for it. What possessed you to wander the streets alone this morning? And to fall for that old trick! Did you not recognise your own livery?”

Edmund’s face was as white as Lucie’s. “I was not looking for trouble. I was thinking of Stefan, bobbing on the tide.” He closed his eyes. “About myself I care naught.”

“So Stefan is dead?” Lucie asked.

“I have no doubt.” While Tildy held a hot compress to Edmund’s aching shoulder, he told Owen and Lucie of his resolve after hearing Joanna’s confession.

“What confession?” Lucie demanded.

Owen told her what he knew. Edmund added some details.

Lucie rose from Alfred’s side, pressing her fists into the small of her back. “Sweet Heaven! And yet there are still so many questions. What of the seal of St Sebastian? Joanna said ‘we needed but the seal’. Who did she mean by ‘we’?”

Owen did not like Lucie’s energy. “You will stay put while I am with the bailiff?”

But Lucie did not respond, busy tsking over Edmund’s wounds.

Lucie paced the kitchen, from the open door to the fireplace, while Bess sat at the table, stripping mint branches. Lucie sighed. “So many answers, yet still so many questions. If Stefan loved Joanna as Edmund claims, why would he have murdered the brother she loved so much?”

Bess put aside her work and brought a pitcher of ale down from a shelf. “You must be in need of this. I am.” She poured a cup of ale, passed it to Lucie, poured one for herself, drank. Her nose and cheeks flushed with the impact of her husband’s strong brew. “Thank the Lord for my Tom.” She grinned at Lucie. “What are you thinking?”

Lucie stood by the window, cup in hand, frowning. “Of what did Hugh and Joanna speak when they met? I must know that.”

Bess grunted. “’Tis curious, isn’t it? She was so angry with her brother for leaving without a word, still begrudging his deserting her years ago. What were those two up to?”

Lucie slowly lifted the cup to her mouth, but paused, lowered it. “And the medal, Bess. Mary Magdalene. Such a curious patron saint for a girl of thirteen. The patron saint of repentant sinners. Of what sin was Hugh thinking when he gave her that medal?” Lucie began to pace again. “I assumed that Matthew Calverley was right, that his wife despaired of Hugh and Joanna because of her family taint. But might it have been something else? Something Hugh and Joanna had done?”

Bess took another long drink, her eyes faraway. She nodded. “And they meant to run off together.”

Lucie finally sat down opposite Bess and sipped her ale, staring into her friend’s face, seeing her own questions mirrored in Bess’s shrewd eyes. “Why did Stefan kill Hugh and not just capture him? He made enemies, doing that.” Lucie put the cup down, pressed the heels of her hands into her brows. What else? Something niggled at the back of her mind. “Stefan would have spied on Hugh and Joanna before he went into Hugh’s house. What did he see that threw him into a murderous rage?” Lucie met Bess’s frank look and nodded. “‘ Noli me tangere .’ Who said that to Joanna?”