Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

Owen shook his head. “Not now. Come home.”

“What has happened to Joanna?”

Owen tried to lift her.

Lucie fought him. “You said it, Owen. Now tell me.”

“Joanna jumped from the window. Her neck was broken.”

Lucie’s stomach lurched. “But she did not confess the deepest sin, Owen. Not to a confessor. Only to me.”

Owen pulled her close, kissed her forehead. “Perhaps it was enough. We shall pray that it was.”

Jasper and his friends from the school sneaked round to the archbishop’s gaol to glimpse the men being led out in shackles.

“What did they do?” one of the boys asked.

“Killed a nun,” another replied. “Pushed her out of a window.”

Jasper shook his head. “No one pushed her. She jumped.”

They all turned to Jasper with wide eyes, remembering his authority.

“Did Captain Archer see it?”

“No.”

“Did anyone see it?”

“Dame Prudentia, the infirmaress,” Jasper said. “She cried a lot and said it was her fault. But the captain told her that when people are determined to do such things, no one can stop them, just delay them.” Jasper gazed round at the attentive faces lifted towards him. This was a benefit of being an apprentice in the Wilton apothecary that he had not foreseen. “Those men wear the livery of Captain Sebastian of Scarborough. He was a traitor, but now he fights for our King.”

“How did that happen?”

“Captain Archer went to Scarborough and convinced him to fight for Right.”

All heads turned to study the livery of the shackled men.

“But look at the one coming out with Captain Archer. He’s wearing the livery, but he’s free.”

Jasper ducked back behind the corner of the building. Owen might not be pleased to see him there. “That’s Edmund of Whitby,” Jasper told his friends. “He helped the captain a lot, so His Grace the Archbishop has pardoned him. But he must return to Scarborough and answer to the Percies. He’ll be under guard, but unshackled.”

His friends peered again round the corner to watch for any further action. They were disappointed there were to be no beheadings or hangings.

The men riding ahead of Edmund talked of how Fortune smiled on them, to be ordered down to the shore on such a warm day. They were glad to escape the stinking city. Edmund rode silently behind them, trying not to look at the blue sky. It reminded him of the cursed mantle he had given Joanna Calverley, the mantle he now carried. He had asked the Reverend Mother for this small thing, the mantle; perhaps it was somehow blessed and might speed Stefan on towards Heaven. Dame Isobel had gladly given him the mantle, pleased to be rid of it. “For it was you who gave it to poor Joanna. It should go back to you.”

Perhaps it had been blessed – it had carried Joanna, the cause of all this sorrow, to her own destruction. It remained a puzzle to Edmund why everyone had been so determined to keep Joanna alive. He had not flinched at the sight of Joanna’s blood, her bruised and swollen neck. She had wished for death. But he was grateful, in the end, that the sisters had frustrated Joanna’s attempts to starve herself. It was far more satisfying to him that she had died violently, with pain.

Now Edmund wound his way down a bluff on the North Sea to identify a body that had been washed up on the beach below. If it was Stefan, Edmund would wrap him in the frayed blue mantle and carry him back to Scarborough. Before departing to join King Edward, Captain Sebastian had arranged for a search party and, if Stefan’s body were found, it was to be buried under the aisle in the manor chapel. It was characteristic of the captain, this courtesy. It was this made his men so loyal. He had learned it from du Guesclin.

Ever since the word had come, Edmund had prayed it was not Stefan. As long as his friend’s body was not found, there was hope. Edmund could imagine Stefan alive and thriving, perhaps fighting with the Free Companies on the continent.

Edmund’s companions reined in their horses. “There,” one shouted above the surf and wind, “down in that cave.”

Edmund took the lantern from his saddle, draped the mantle round his neck, and walked across the sand to the cave. His companions followed, but waited outside.

Stepping inside, Edmund stood a moment, blinded after the sun-drenched beach. He took a deep breath, smelled high tides and another odour – man’s mortality. He opened a shutter on the lantern, held the mantle up to his mouth and nose, and moved towards a makeshift grave of rocks crowned with driftwood, just cover enough to keep out scavengers. The stench grew stronger, overpowering the scent of the sea water in the tidal pools. Edmund set the lantern on a stone and shoved aside the driftwood cover, still holding the mantle to his face. Then he lifted the lantern over the bloated, half-eaten body. There was so little left untouched, but the hair was blond, the height and build Stefan’s, and the broken front tooth unmistakable. One hand clutched a leather purse attached to a thong at Stefan’s waist. Edmund set the lantern down and worked the purse loose, his hands shaking with emotion.

“You were a good friend, Stefan, and I mean to be one in return. I take ship in a few days for your homeland. All your earthly belongings will be delivered up to your wife, and I shall tell her what a fine man you were. Rest in peace, my friend. Your family shall not want.”

Edmund called to the men waiting outside.

When Stefan’s body was wrapped in the mantle and slung across the extra horse, Edmund looked in the leather purse. There, sadly intact, was the seal of Captain Sebastian. The seal that would have provided Joanna and Hugh safe passage to France and a cursed marriage. Edmund wished with all his heart that Stefan had been too late to discover Joanna with Hugh, had been left, heartbroken, but alive, wondering why she had deserted him. He must now find a way to describe this tragedy to Stefan’s wife as an honourable death.

Owen, Ned, and Thoresby rode out of York on a sunny August day, headed for Pontefract. Ned and Thoresby would continue with the Duke’s retinue to Windsor; Owen would return in a few days. Lancaster had invited him to a high mass blessing the new captains and their Castilian adventure, with an accompanying feast at which Owen would be a guest of honour.

He had thought to refuse. He wanted no more of travelling, no more of Thoresby. But Lucie had insisted, supported by Bess and Magda; Lucie argued that Owen should see his friends once more before they all embarked on their new endeavours, for who knew when they might all meet again in this life.

Lucie had, it seemed, been doing quite a lot of thinking since Joanna Calverley’s death. “Life is short and precious, and happiness even more so. I think we should swallow our pride and accept Sir Robert’s gift of Corbett’s house.”

Owen found this new mood strange. “This new philosophy has convinced you to accept him as your father?”

Lucie had looked uncomfortable. “He is an old man. I fear I might regret it if I continue to reject him.”

“And I, too, must swallow my pride?”

“He means no insult, Owen. He says you are a good husband to me, and he is proud of you.”

“Because of Thoresby.”

She shrugged.

“And my time as captain of archers for the old Duke.”

“Faith, what is the harm in that? Sir Robert was a soldier – like you when I first met you – it is the life he knew best.”

“Will you call him ‘father’ when you accept?”

“I shall try to.”

With such a concession on Lucie’s part, what could Owen say? “Perhaps with a larger house we shall find opportunities for quiet moments together.”