The Nun's Tale (13 page)

Isobel rubbed her arm. ‘His neck was surely broken before he went in, Joanna.’

The green eyes stared as the head snapped back and forth, back and forth. ‘No no no no no no no no no!’

Both Isobel and Mary worked up a sweat binding Joanna’s hands to her sides, so she might not injure herself more. At last Isobel sent Mary for Dame Prudentia. While she awaited the infirmaress, Isobel sat as far from Joanna and her violent emotion as the room permitted.

Michaelo met the archbishop with a note. ‘From the prioress of St Clement’s, Your Grace.’

Thoresby took the note. ‘Follow me.’ The archbishop went into his parlour, poured two fingers of brandywine and drank it down. He opened the note, read it to himself and threw it on the table with a curse.

‘Your Grace?’

‘Our intriguing Dame Joanna is now frightening the Reverend Mother with her terror of the grave.’

‘An experience one would remember keenly.’

‘She is a melodramatic woman, and speaks either nonsense or riddles. Dame Isobel is frightened. The nun ripped her own throat with her nails and keeps saying’ – Thoresby picked up the letter – ‘ “No one should suffer the grave before Death’s sleep.” A pronouncement, no more. According to both Brother Wulfstan and the Reverend Mother, only one person has managed to make sense of Joanna or somehow inspire her to speak sense: Mistress Wilton.’

Michaelo’s nostrils flared. ‘Captain Archer will not like us drawing her in.’

Thoresby glowered at Michaelo. ‘ “Us?” You forget yourself, Michaelo. Go find out how long it will take them to warm my bath water.’ When he was alone, Thoresby picked up the letter and reread it. Dame Isobel begged him to use his influence to enlist Lucie Wilton’s assistance, mentioning her interview with Lucie that afternoon. Thoresby poured himself another brandywine, sat down by the window, and sipped the delicate liquid while he pondered how to speak with the apothecary away from her protective husband.

*

At supper, Tildy mentioned seeing the prioress of St Clement’s leaving the shop as she returned from market. ‘Was it not enough that you saw her this morning, Mistress Lucie?’

Lucie frowned and shook her head, a tiny motion, obviously meaning only Tildy to see it. But Owen caught the exchange.

Tildy blushed and dropped her head, suddenly intent upon her soup.

Owen was intrigued. ‘What business have you with Dame Isobel de Percy? Is it Joanna Calverley? Have you met her?’

Lucie stirred her soup. ‘Briefly.’ She did not meet Owen’s eyes. ‘Archbishop Thoresby has ordered Dame Isobel to learn what she can about the young woman’s year away. Joanna has not been forthcoming. So Isobel thought I might suggest how to approach her.’

Thoresby. Owen began to smell a rat. ‘Why you?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘Wulfstan sent for me. He wished a woman to examine Joanna. St Clement’s infirmaress had done so, but when she was moved to the abbey Wulfstan wanted to be doubly certain of her condition.’ Lucie pushed her soup aside and rose. ‘Shall we have the meat now?’

‘Tildy can serve, Lucie. Go on.’

Lucie sat back down with a sigh. ‘Isobel heard my discourse with Joanna, felt I had managed to get more sense out of her than she does. So she came to the shop this afternoon to ask my advice.’

That sounded innocent enough. ‘You must tell me about her.’

Lucie glanced up, saw that Owen had relaxed, grinned. ‘Poor Joanna. I of all people understand why she fled St Clement’s. And it must be all the worse now with God’s ferret in charge.’

‘Is that what you called her when you lived there?’

‘And worse! She was a sanctimonious informer.’

Owen wished to hear more. Lucie seldom talked about her days at the convent. ‘And in what sinful acts did she catch you, my love?’

Tildy placed a trencher between Owen and Lucie and slipped back into her seat, leaning her chin on her hand, awaiting a good tale.

Lucie looked from Tildy to Owen and burst out laughing. ‘It was nothing so devilish, believe me. Snatching apples from the cellar, dancing in the orchard, climbing trees . . .’

‘Her post was looking after the little ones?’

Lucie rolled her eyes. ‘Isobel is not that much older than I am. She simply took it on herself to torment me.’ The playful look darkened. ‘I have always believed it was Isobel who spread the word that my mother was a French whore.’

Tildy gasped. ‘Oh Mistress Lucie, that was never true!’

‘Of course it was not true.’

Owen did not like the colour rising in Lucie’s cheeks. ‘What was wrong with climbing trees?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘There were rules about everything. It seemed everything but prayer and work was a sin.’ Lucie suddenly laughed. ‘But Isobel now wears a silk gorget and carries delicately embroidered linen. I wish I knew to whom I might report her!’

‘I hope you sent her away with bad advice.’

‘There was little I could tell her. But I shall tell you all you wish to know when you tell me why you are home betimes. Has Thoresby called you back to help him discover Joanna’s story?’

Owen had known she would guess. He had purposefully not said, watching how long it would take. ‘You have found me out, wife. But while I was on the road, the circumstances became even more disturbing. I do not want you involved with this any more.’ He told her about Alfred and Colin.

When Tildy had gone off to bed, Lucie told Owen about Joanna’s condition and what she had learned from Isobel.

‘I want to speak with her tomorrow,’ he said as they climbed up to bed.

‘Shall I come?’

Owen did not like the eagerness with which Lucie asked the question. ‘No. I have told you. People have been murdered round that woman. I want you to stay away from her.’ He stopped as they entered their bedchamber and turned to Lucie, tipping her chin up so she looked him in the eye. ‘Promise me you will stay away from Joanna Calverley?’

Lucie smiled, reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him. ‘Let us speak no more of nuns this night, Owen. I want my husband’s full attention.’

Much later, when Owen woke in the night with a full bladder, he shook his head at how neatly Lucie had side-stepped the promise. But, in faith, he loved her for that very wilfulness.

T
horesby sent for Michaelo on rising. Usually he gave his secretary his orders for the day while breakfasting, but with guests there was no privacy. While the servants dressed him, Thoresby listed Michaelo’s tasks, including summoning Owen Archer to the palace for a meeting. ‘Mid-morning should suffice.’ He had an elegantly simple solution to the problem of getting Archer out of the way while he engaged Lucie Wilton in the task of communicating with Joanna Calverley.

By the time Thoresby descended to break his fast, Ravenser and Louth were already before the fire in the great hall, dipping bread in honey and discussing their plans for the day.

‘I shall spend the morning at St Leonard’s doing battle,’ Ravenser was saying. He was master of St Leonard’s Hospital. ‘The monks oppose me in the sale of two corodies, but they admit that there will be shortfalls by Michaelmas.’

Louth sniffed. ‘Hospitals. I cannot abide such places. You were a saint to accept the post.’

Ravenser laughed. ‘Hardly a saint, Nicholas. I rarely go in the infirmary. My business is with the brothers.’

‘Corodies are an excellent source of income. What do they propose instead?’

‘Economies, to get through the crisis.’ Ravenser nodded at Louth’s laugh. ‘You see the folly of such thinking, why can’t they? They refuse to admit that the Petercorn and the income from the manor farms are steadily falling. They shall not improve until we are free of pestilence and blessed with good harvests for a while. Economies now will only prolong the problem.’

Thoresby, tired of his nephew’s frequent tirades about the backward economics of the Augustinians of St Leonard’s, made a noisy entrance as he joined them at table. ‘Are your retainers set to any tasks today, Nicholas?’

Louth straightened. ‘Doubling up the guard at the abbey gates as they have been doing, Your Grace.’

‘I would like two of them to talk with Alfred, learn all they can about where the assault occurred, and then go look round, talk to the folk who live there, find out if anyone saw or heard anything, knows anything.’

Louth rose. ‘I shall see to it at once, Your Grace.’

Ravenser dabbed at his sticky hands. ‘What about Owen Archer? Should he perhaps be with them?’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘I have other plans for him. He will be off to Leeds on the morrow. I want him to talk with the Calverleys. Find out all he can about Joanna. Why the family disowned her.’

Louth had almost reached the door. Now he turned round. ‘Your Grace, might I accompany him to Leeds?’

Thoresby sat back in his chair, steepling his hands and peering at Nicholas de Louth over them. ‘Why?’

Louth returned to the table. He stood by Thoresby, his fingertips pressing into the table. ‘I feel responsible for much of this situation. I wish to do what I can.’

‘Archer is quite competent.’

‘Indeed.’ Louth cleared his throat and kept his eyes on Thoresby’s hands. ‘I thought I might learn something by observing him, Your Grace.’

Thoresby considered Louth’s pampered paunch and fussy clothes. He could not imagine him riding with Archer. ‘I doubt he will be keen for your company.’

Louth took a step closer. ‘I pray you suggest it. He can but refuse.’

Thoresby shrugged. ‘I shall suggest it. Get your men to work at once – in case Archer surprises me and agrees.’

Louth smiled, bobbed his head and hurried from the room.

The day was overcast, cooler than it had been of late, the high clouds holding no rain. John Thoresby sat on the low wall separating the kitchen garden from the formal garden and looked back towards the house. The paths of the kitchen garden were edged in santolina and hardy lavender. Camomile blossoms gave off an apple scent even though they were closed up against the morning chill. Bees already buzzed among the borage blossoms. Thoresby looked up at the archbishop’s palace, two storeys of well-matched stone with small glazed windows, a third of whitewashed wattle and daub with wax parchment windows for the servants. It had been a beautiful house, worthy of entertaining even the King. Not so lovely now. Thoresby approved only essential repairs now that he stayed here infrequently. Because the dean and chapter of York Minster had become increasingly jealous of their autonomy, Thoresby usually chose Bishopthorpe as his residence when seeing to business in York. It was several miles south of the city, but close enough, and it was even lovelier than this, with gardens rolling down to the river.

He was a fortunate man to have palaces to choose from – he had several more, scattered about the countryside and one even in Beverley. It was a great privilege to be Archbishop of York. He sat in the King’s Parliament, ruled over a goodly portion of this great city of York, and, through his archdeacons, over all Yorkshire.

Yet it gnawed at him that William of Wykeham was poised to take the chancellor’s chain from round his neck. Why? With his increasingly uncertain relationship with King Edward, it should please him to see an escape.

But it did not. He liked the power he wielded as Lord Chancellor. And he still hoped to guide the King in ruling his kingdom fairly and firmly. He had tasted too much power to be satisfied with just an archbishopric now.

Owen was puzzled to be shown out into the palace garden. Thoresby sat on a bench near the cloister wall, arms crossed, legs stretched out before him, chatting with the gardener. The scene struck Owen as false, set up for a purpose. He wondered what Simon thought of this sudden friendliness.

Simon looked up, saw Owen standing at the end of the path. ‘Captain Archer. Good day to you.’

Owen nodded. ‘Simon. Your Grace.’ He strolled on down the path as Simon loaded his garden cart, prepared to make his escape. Lucky man.

‘Godspeed, Your Grace,’ Simon said, starting forward. He grinned at Owen as he reached him. ‘You’ll be a father before Martinmas, eh? Rest easy. Mistress Wilton is in good hands with the Riverwoman.’ He trundled on by.

Thoresby drew in his legs and dusted off the front of his gown. ‘Is the training progressing well?’ He gestured for Owen to sit on his left.

‘Well enough,’ Owen said, settling down. Perverse of Thoresby to choose to meet in the garden on an overcast day.

‘Can Lief and Gaspare continue on their own?’

Owen turned his good eye fully on the archbishop’s face. He was up to something. ‘I’ve a few more things to show them.’

‘Might that be done today?’ Thoresby turned to face Owen and shook his head with a mocking smile. ‘Why do you frown upon me with such ferocity?’

Owen had not been prepared for such a blunt question. ‘’Tis the light, Your Grace. Though overcast, there is yet a glare out here.’

Thoresby chuckled. ‘Evasion does not become you. I believe it is not the tasks I set you to: you enjoy the challenge. So it must be me. You disapprove of me.’