The Riddle of St Leonard's (9 page)

The shop was empty but for Lucie, who sat on a stool behind the counter mixing dried herbs in a large bowl.

‘What is this?’ Bess said by way of greeting. ‘Only yesterday I could not see the floor for the customers.’

Lucie pushed the bowl aside, wiped her hands in her apron. ‘While the river mist lingers in the alleyways it is often quiet. A friar who passed through the city a few days ago said that it was the vapours that seep beneath the skin and raise the buboes.’

Bess sniffed. ‘Nonsense. ’Tis the bodily fluids in the boils. Why else would the dying thirst so?’

Lucie shook her head. ‘I envy you, Bess. I wish I could be so certain of the cause.’

Bess noted a sadness in her friend’s voice. She knew Lucie was beset with doubts now that she had sent the children to the country. And there was no consoling her, for there was no remedy. ‘Is Owen about?’

‘He and Jasper went to St George’s Field to practise at the butts. Why? What is amiss?’

There was no need to add to Lucie’s worries. ‘’Twas but a passing thought.’ Bess went on to her other business in the shop. ‘Would you mix me a soothing poultice for my uncle’s burned hands?’

‘Gladly.’ Lucie turned towards the jars that lined the wall behind her, then turned back with a quizzical look. ‘But do the sisters not attend him at St Leonard’s?’

‘I would rather they used your medicines on him.’

‘I should not interfere.’

‘Not you. Me. His niece.’

‘You do not trust them?’

‘I do not wish to test them is all. Particularly Honoria de Staines. What could that idle creature know of healing such wounds?’

With a nod, Lucie turned back to the jars. ‘Is there aught else you need for him?’

‘Something for a painful knob on the back of his head.’

Lucie frowned at the detail as she eased a large jar on to the counter. ‘How did that happen?’

Bess had walked right into that one. She thought fast. ‘I imagine a falling beam. The roof collapsed, you know.’

Lucie bent to the task.

Erkenwald wished to go somewhere to be alone to think; or, better yet, find Owen Archer. But Cuthbert had asked him to accompany him to the cellarer’s garden. There was no avoiding it. Erkenwald was himself to blame for involving the man.

The little cellarer stood in front of a cluster of comfrey heavy with bloom. He trembled with rage. ‘Have I not instructed you to keep still to the world at large about our problems?’

‘God help me, but you do begin far into the matter,’ Erkenwald said. ‘Of what do you accuse me?’

‘Now Mistress Merchet has heard her uncle’s tale.’

‘She is his niece. She has a right to know.’

‘You—’

‘I told her nothing. Master Taverner told her. How did you hope to hide it? She might have thought little of it, but your secrecy made it a discovery. What are you doing about it, eh? Have you spoken with people who might have seen aught? Do you realise how dangerous it is to have a murderer loose?’

‘Murderer.’ Cuthbert spat out the word. ‘You do not believe his story?’

‘And why not? Do you have a better explanation for the knot on his head? And the one that felled Master Warrene?’

‘We have never had such problems before.’

‘Oh? What of Walter de Hotter?’

‘That had naught to do with the hospital.’

‘And the thefts?’

Cuthbert blanched. ‘Those I cannot explain.’

‘Do you know what folk are saying? That your reformed sinner Honoria de Staines wears underskirts of linen. That when away from the hospital her wimple is of silk.’

‘Mistress Staines is not a thief.’

Erkenwald shook his head. The time had come to rattle the cellarer’s complacency. ‘You will have much to explain to Sir Richard.’

‘I pray that all will be quiet once more before his next visitation.’

‘I doubt it. He has sent word that he is on his way from the south.’

Cuthbert pressed his hands to his stomach, closed his eyes. ‘You betrayed me.’

‘I did what I thought best.’

O
wen questioned his wisdom in bringing Jasper out this morning. The wind was from the south and the sky a sickly grey, neither stormy nor fair; the sort of weather some said brought pestilence. Owen was not inclined to believe it, or the new fear of river mist. Such weather was common and far more often than not brought nothing more horrible than a lack of sunshine. But the quiet streets made him wonder whether he was being foolhardy. Jasper, too, seemed disturbed, gazing about with a worried frown.

The gate of Davy Hall was latched and chained as if the family had fled to the country. The few folk in the streets scurried about their business, heads low, many holding scented bags close to their faces. Near the Franciscan friary the street was almost deserted. A friar made the sign of the cross as he hurried past them and slipped into the friary, from which came a familiar smell.

‘Juniper wood,’ Jasper said.

‘Aye. ’Tis a pleasant scent, though I do not know whether I believe burning it can save a man from the poisoned air.’ They headed down to the staithe and walked along the jetty that would bring them quickly to St George’s Field.

‘Mistress Baker wondered whether smoke from the hospital fire carried pestilence.’

‘Alice Baker discovers new causes and cures each day. I would not pay her much heed, Jasper.’

But the boy was not so easily dissuaded. ‘What did Mistress Merchet say? Were they burning the dead?’

Thus began a rumour founded on naught. ‘Mistress Baker should not speak of what she does not know. They were not burning the dead at the hospital. A house caught fire.’ Owen did not add that Laurence de Warrene had been burning the clothing of a plague victim.

‘Mistress Merchet seemed most upset.’

‘Oh, aye, she was that. Her uncle’s friend died in the fire. And her uncle, who tried to save him, has burns and injuries that will take long to mend.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘They say Laurence de Warrene had collected some clothes, bedding, and such to burn. The fire flared up in his face and caught his clothes. He fled to the house and set it alight before anyone could help.’

‘Was no one tending the fire?’

‘Warrene was.’

‘It was an accident?’

Owen found that a curious question. ‘As far as anyone knows. Though I heard it suggested at the tavern that he wished to follow his wife.’

‘But to take his life …’ Jasper shook his head.

‘It is passing strange.’

They passed the castle mills. Jasper turned to Owen as they reached St George’s Field. ‘Does Mistress Merchet wish you to find out what happened?’

‘Nay, lad. And you can be sure that if Bess decides there is cause for concern she will be the one to poke and prod.’ Owen disappeared into a small building and emerged with a straw butt, which he set down in the middle of the cleared area. Jasper had a talent for the longbow, as had his father. And as a former captain of archers, Owen enjoyed training the lad. ‘Now. Today we work on your aim.’

Jasper readied his longbow, took his stance.

Owen adjusted the lad’s right elbow, nudging it up, pulled back on the left shoulder. ‘Can you feel the difference?’

Jasper had been squinting, ready to fire. Now he closed his eyes, opened them. ‘Moving my left shoulder like that feels odd. Like the bow is aiming left now.’

Owen got behind him, sighted, shook his head. ‘Sighting with my right eye might make a difference, though I thought I knew how to judge that. Try it like this.’

Jasper squinted, let go the arrow. It landed true. He turned towards Owen with a look of wonder. ‘You aim better with one eye than I do with two.’

‘Eyes and body work together. ’Tis part of why we practise. Over and over until you know how it feels. Now, again.’

They worked at it for a while, then Owen suggested they walk down to the bank where the Foss and Ouse converged. His purpose in bringing Jasper to the field today had been to talk to him, convince him that Lucie would not rest easy unless the lad followed Hugh and Gwenllian to Freythorpe Hadden. But how to begin?

‘Is that why you still shoot so well, Captain? Because you
feel
how to adjust your aim?’

‘Somewhat. And days, weeks, months of training myself over again after I lost my eye.’

‘So you meant to continue as captain of archers?’

‘Nay, lad. I meant to sail to Italy and offer my services as a mercenary. Over there, a man might make enough to live in such service.’

‘You wanted to become a mercenary?’

‘A dark, devilish secret, eh? I lusted for blood.’ Owen laughed to see the surprise on Jasper’s face. He patted the boy on the back. ‘Nay, ’twas nothing so terrible. I could think of naught else to do. My lord was dead. I believed he had kept me in his service after I’d lost my eye out of Christian duty. Henry of Grosmont was a devout man, a man of honour and grace. His successor was the son of the King. He had a retinue. What need would he have of a half-blind archer? Or a spy? So I planned, worked, then found myself taken up by the archbishop.’

‘God watched over you.’

‘Most days I think that. I would not be Lucie’s husband were it not for His Grace.’ Owen shifted so that he might see Jasper’s face more clearly. The boy sat with legs bent, knees high, hands behind propping him up at an angle, his bony shoulders hunched. An age of angles and long limbs. ‘Which brings me to something that is weighing on my mind.’

Jasper clenched his jaw, shook his head once so his straight flaxen locks fell across his eyes. ‘I know. You wish to send me away.’

‘For Lucie’s sake, Jasper, not mine. I would lief have you here. You are a fine apprentice, and she needs you in the shop. But she is thinking of the last time, when the pestilence took her son Martin. She believes it is the children who are in the most danger. And it does seem so. Even with all their care, the sisters of St Leonard’s have lost several orphans, but only Matilda de Warrene and John Rudby among the grown men and women.’

Jasper sat up, turned to Owen. ‘Mistress Warrene? So they
were
plague things burned at the hospital.’ His eyes were earnest. A little too earnest for the subject matter.

‘Do not try to change the direction of this conversation, Jasper.’

The boy slumped again, head down, hair in his eyes. ‘I must stay in the city, Captain. I am Mistress Lucie’s apprentice. I am bound to stay, I am bound to do what I can to help the people of York against the pestilence.’

‘But if Lucie is right you are one of those in greatest danger.’

Jasper’s head shot up again. ‘I am not a child.’

‘Aye, ’tis true. You are thirteen, not a babe. But not yet so far from it.’

Jasper leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking out at the water. ‘What would I do all day?’

Ah. More to the heart of the matter. ‘Sir Robert would find occupation for you. You would not tend the children.’

The lad was silent for a time. Owen thought perhaps he had run out of arguments. But when Jasper spoke, that hope evaporated.

‘Mistress Lucie spoke of Brother Wulfstan the other day, how he is risking his life to go among the sick in the city because so many of the priests are fearful to go near those with the pestilence.’ Brother Wulfstan was the infirmarian of St Mary’s Abbey. ‘She said it is dangerous for him, far more so than for others, because he is so old. But she spoke of him with admiration.’ He glanced at Owen to see his reaction.

Owen could not help but smile. The lad was bright, and a good debater. ‘Lucie is worried for him, Jasper. She prays for him.’ Lucie and Wulfstan were old friends.

‘But she believes he is fulfilling his vow. I, too, have such a vow.’

Owen gazed on the flaxen-haired, gangly youth and found himself loath to argue further. ‘I always said you grew so fast, one day I would look on you and think you a stranger. And there you sit, suddenly a young man.’

‘Then I can stay?’

‘How are we to reassure Lucie?’

‘I do not mean to cause her pain.’

‘The pain is not your fault, lad. It comes from memories. I see her suddenly turn pale, or her eyes grow dark, and I cannot understand what brought the memory, the pain. A scent? A sound? And even with all of you gone to the country I cannot say that would cease. Such pain dulls with time, but never disappears.’

Jasper had grown quiet, and Owen realised how thoughtless he had been. Jasper had painful memories of his own – by his ninth year he had lost both parents, and the man who was to become his foster father. ‘Come. Let me see whether your shoulder remembers what I taught it today.’

The novice Gervase showed Jasper into the infirmary at St Mary’s Abbey. Brother Henry glanced up from his prayers with a worried frown. ‘I pray you do not seek Brother Wulfstan for someone in your household?’

‘No,’ Jasper said. ‘I need to speak with him. I need advice.’

The subinfirmarian got to his feet. ‘I need advice myself. How do I stop him? How do I protect him?’