The Nun's Tale (36 page)

‘So what do you learn here of him?’

‘The walls are scarred and pocked; the chairs and table have been mended more than once. I would guess he has a fierce temper. Perhaps when he drinks alone.’

Edmund nodded. ‘You have learned something of him. Will feels God cheated him with the leg. All those years of soldiering and then to fall off his horse escaping a cuckolded husband and crush his leg.’ Edmund grinned at Owen’s look of surprise. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No one has talked much about Longford the man, just his connection with du Guesclin, with Captain Sebastian, Joanna and Hugh Calverley . . .’ Owen shook his head. ‘Fleeing an angry husband. An embarrassing end to a career.’

‘Will brags about it, his wild wenching, his derring-do. But it is a curse to him.’

Owen had seen enough. ‘Is there good ale to be had in Beverley?’

‘I shall show you my favourite inn.’

They had not far to go. The taverner paused as they entered, eyeing Owen’s patch and scar. Then he recognised Edmund. ‘Been a long while. Is Longford back, too?’

‘Nay. I am on other business. Travelling with Captain Archer here, former captain of archers for the old Duke of Lancaster.’

The taverner’s eyes opened wider. ‘You fought with Henry of Grosmont?’

Owen was accustomed to this response. It usually earned him excellent service in the hope of a good tale or two. ‘That I did.’

‘Then why in God’s name are you travelling with the like of Edmund here? Outlaws they are, same as the one came asking about him.’

Edmund tensed. ‘Who was that?’

‘The one came with you last time. When you were looking for Stefan.’

‘Jack?’

The taverner shrugged. ‘Can’t say as I remember a name.’

‘When was he here?’ Edmund asked.

‘Yesterday. Early in the day.’

‘Have you seen him since?’

The taverner shook his head, turned back to Owen. ‘So why are you travelling with Edmund?’

‘The King has welcomed his friends back to his service.’

The taverner’s eyes opened wide, shifted from Owen to Edmund and back. ‘Then ’tis true what they say, our King is desperate for gold to fight King Charles.’ He shook his head. ‘Hard times are upon us when our King needs the likes of Will Longford.’

After Owen had sent off the taverner with a firsthand account of one of the old Duke’s lesser-known exploits, he and Edmund settled down to judging the ale.

‘Too bitter, but smooth, clean.’ Owen nodded. ‘I could drink another.’

Edmund drained his cup, called to the taverner for another round. ‘Told you he was behind us.’

‘He’s in front of us now. Biding his time, I think.’

When the taverner came with the pitcher, Owen asked, ‘This man asking after Edmund. Did he ask after anyone else?’

‘A one-eyed archer – yourself, I should think – Longford, Stefan . . . and a nun, God help us. I asked did he mean the one who died and was resurrected in Our Lady’s mantle. He said was none of my business, which I took as a yes.’

Owen thanked him for the information.

Edmund fell to his drink while Owen studied him. He’d been on the road with Edmund for days now. What had he learned of him? Edmund was quiet, thoughtful, steadfast in his loyalties, or Owen was no judge. ‘You don’t seem the sort who joins up with someone like Sebastian.’

‘I suppose I’m not.’

‘What will you do after this?’

‘If I find Stefan, my life will go on as it was. But without Stefan’ – Edmund wiped his mouth on his sleeve – ‘I’ll go back to building ships, I suppose.’

‘You
were
a shipwright? Really?’

Edmund nodded. ‘I was young, an apprentice in Whitby, working on a ship for Sebastian. Met Stefan, listened to his stories . . . It sounded like a man’s life – fighting, wenching, drinking, sailing, more fighting.’ He smiled sadly at his fist, scarred knuckles. ‘But the taste for all that weakens with experience. I’d like a wife, children . . . a home.’ He shrugged. ‘Still a dreamer, you see.’

‘But if Stefan wishes to continue in this life, you will do so?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why?’

Edmund pounded the table lightly with his fist, then opened his hand, pressed it palm down on the table, fingers splayed. He took out his dagger and began the dangerous game of stabbing the table in between each finger, going back and forth on the hand, faster and faster. When the dagger grazed a finger, he stopped, lifted his hand, wiggled the bleeding finger. ‘Your friend Ned is far better with a dagger than I am, eh? So is Stefan. He never misses. Ever.’

Owen did not see, ‘And that is why you would stay in this life? Because you admire your friend’s skill with the dagger?’

Edmund shook his head. ‘Because as a shipwright I shall not meet such a man again. Not likely. I shall meet only cautious men, out to make money and keep their families fed and housed. I can always go back to that. I could not find another Stefan.’ Edmund sucked on the finger. ‘Or you. It’s been interesting meeting you. You looked such a rogue. I was sure one of us had to kill the other. And you decided to trust me.’

Owen shook his head. ‘It was you decided to trust me, to bargain with me.’

‘A shipwright never needs to make such choices.’

‘Nor does he have to watch his back.’

‘That is your fault, Captain Archer. I had Jack cornered. He would have been dead if you had left me to it.’

Owen did not need to be reminded of that.

At dawn the town was cool and full of intriguing shadows. Owen walked to St Mary’s graveyard with Ravenser, Edmund, and Alfred, expecting nothing to come of this deed. But he must try it, must put to rest the feeling that there was more in that grave than Ravenser and Louth had noticed.

Old Dan was already at the site, digging, his son with him. The grave was at the edge of the yard, shaded by a tree. Owen looked up at the buildings facing the grave. Sides and backs of houses at a slight distance, no main street nearby. Unless a neighbour had been out relieving himself in the dark, a burial at night might be accomplished here unheeded.

‘There he is, just as we left him,’ said Old Dan, stepping back.

Owen stepped forward, covering his lower face against the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting flesh, and looked down at the huge, decomposing body. The man had been taller than average and fat, with a barrel-shaped torso and muscular legs. The face was decomposing. It was damp here between the Beck and the Walkerbeck. The bodies would go quickly. The head was at an unnatural angle. ‘Jaro?’ Owen asked, glancing at Edmund.

Edmund nodded. ‘Jaro indeed. I told you he was a good cook.’

Owen averted his head and took a deep breath, then crouched down at the top of the grave, motioning for Alfred and Edmund to go to the feet. ‘He will be heavy. Let’s lift him out by the shroud if we can, if it’s not rotten yet.’

Old Dan knelt down beside Owen, gasping at the stench. ‘With four it’ll be easier.’

They heaved, the shroud held, they lowered and got better grips, then heaved and swung the body to the side of the grave. It landed with a moist thud.

‘Sweet Heaven,’ Ravenser said. Beneath Jaro was a bloodstained shroud, spread open, empty. But round the top edge curled fingers, torn and bloody. The outline of a man’s head and torso was plain beneath the sheet.

Owen lifted the sheet from the side, avoiding the hands. It was a man, his face distorted in terror, mouth wide open – tongueless, eyes bulging, torso arched upward in the middle. The man had only one leg. ‘I think we have found Joanna’s nightmare. The man buried alive – Will Longford.’ He turned aside, took a deep breath.

‘
Deus juva me
,’ Edmund whispered, falling to his knees beside Owen.

‘Whoever did it used Jaro’s bulk to weigh Longford down,’ Owen said. ‘And he was not alone.’

Ravenser made the sign of the cross and said a prayer.

‘Now what?’ Edmund asked.

Owen stood up, dusted his knees. ‘Now I am most anxious to return to York and find out how Joanna knew of this.’

Scaffolds and tents of stonemasons and other artisans cluttered the front and south side of Beverley Minster. Owen walked past the foundations of the front towers and into the nave. It was high and long, filled with summer light.

A stonecutter working inside pointed him towards the north aisle. ‘My father did his best work down there.’

Owen discovered intricate carvings of musicians, human and animal, fashioned with a sense of humour. Their expressions and gestures were so lively he strained to hear the music.

He moved slowly down the nave, studying the figures. At the shrine of St John of Beverley he paused, knelt down, said a prayer.

‘You were looking for me?’

Owen rose to greet the priest who had found Joanna’s medal. ‘I wished to ask you about a nun you may have encountered a year past. She lost a medal in your churchyard.’

The young priest nodded. ‘I know you are somehow connected with her. An odd story, her death and resurrection.’

‘She did not die, Father. You do know that?’

The priest shrugged. ‘We all believe as our conscience leads us, Captain Archer. Yes, I do remember her. She had removed her veil and knelt in the mud when I found her. I had no idea what had happened. The man who came for the medal told me a boy had tried to steal it but she had frightened him and it had fallen in the mud. But she told me only that she must catch up with her companions.’

‘Companions?’

The priest shrugged. ‘A nun never travels alone.’

‘But you saw no companions?’

The priest shook his head.

‘The man. Tell me about him.’

‘Tall, fair, built much like you. I guessed him to be a soldier. Perhaps her lover.’ He closed his eyes and clucked his disapproval. ‘It happens all too often.’

‘And yet you think she died and was reborn?’

The priest spread his hands wide. ‘Christ brought the Magdalene into a new life. This child valued her Magdalene medal. Perhaps her patron saint interceded to save Dame Joanna’s soul. I have heard of the miracle of St Clement’s.’

Owen ignored that. ‘You know nothing more of the man?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did anyone else ever come seeking the medal. Or the nun?’

The priest shook his head. ‘She is back at St Clement’s now?’

‘She is in York, under the archbishop’s protection.’

‘St Clement’s will be the richer for her return. In every way. God is benevolent.’

Owen stayed in the minster after the priest had gone, watching the dust dance in the sunbeams. This fascination with Joanna’s supposed miracle made him uneasy, made him doubt all miracles. Were they all such wrong-headed rumours? How could one ever know which ones were true, which ones false? And what about the mantle? So many thought it truly Our Lady’s mantle. How many other relics were frauds? He crossed himself and tried to pray, but went back to staring at the stone musicians. At least they felt right and true.

L
ucie was in the shop, bent over her mortar and pestle, crushing lovage root.

‘Mistress Wilton!’

Jasper de Melton stood in the doorway, his blond hair almost white from summer days in Brother Wulfstan’s garden learning herb lore along with his reading and writing.

‘Have you completed your errands?’ Lucie asked.

‘I delivered the rosemary to Mistress Merchet. She gave me a meat pie for my troubles. And Mistress Lavendar says the kitten is most likely from her cat’s litter, and we are welcome to him.’

‘Him? Is she certain?’

‘She says all the orange and white cats from her litters are male. Always.’

Lucie smiled. ‘I have known an orange female to sneak in from time to time.’

Jasper shrugged, took a few steps into the shop. ‘Are you busy?’

‘Of course I am busy, Jasper, but with no customers in here I should welcome your company.’

Happily the boy came round the counter and hoisted himself up onto a stool. He leaned close to the mortar and sniffed. ‘Strong.’

Lucie nodded. ‘Can you guess what it is?’

Jasper sniffed again, shook his head.

‘Lovage root. Do you know what it does?’

‘Makes you look fair to the one you love.’

Lucie bit back a smile. ‘Did Brother Wulfstan tell you this?’

‘No. Mistress Fletcher did.’

Ah. The woman who owned the room Jasper and his mother had lived in. ‘And why did she tell you this?’

‘Not me, my Mother. She said Mother should bathe in lovage to be even more beautiful, so Master Crounce would marry her.’

‘So what has Brother Wulfstan told you of lovage?’

‘I cannot remember.’

Lucie glanced up, hearing the hush in Jasper’s voice that signalled tears. It was the memory of his mother. ‘I am making this up for Thomas the Tanner, who is long married with four children. Do you think he wants to look more fair to Mistress Tanner?’