A Fox in the Fold

Two Catalyst, and Nemesis

Outside the York city walls on the south bank of the Ouse, St Clement’s Priory, a Benedictine convent of modest size, was surrounded by orchards of gnarled apples, pears, medlars, their colors fading, not yet bright with autumn’s sun. A place of peace. But Prioress Isobel was anything but peaceful when she stepped into her parlor to greet Owen and the sheriff.

‘Benedicite, Sir Ralph. Captain Archer. This is a morning for unexpected visitors.’

‘We will not keep you, Mother Isobel,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘We thought you would be made easier knowing that Captain Archer is looking into the theft of your cart of stones.’

‘Our cart–’ She glanced from the sheriff to Owen. ‘I trust you were unaware that His Grace was coming, that had you been you would have thought to warn us. But then why should you think he would appear without warning?’

‘I am not sure what you mean. It was a cart of stones,’ said the sheriff, ‘no more.’

‘You say His Grace has come,’ said Owen. ‘A noble? A royal?’

‘You did not know? I speak of the Bishop of Winchester. Here. This morning. Escorting two sisters from Wherwell Abbey.’

‘I heard nothing of such a visitation by Bishop Wykeham,’ said Sir Ralph.

Nor had Owen. ‘His Grace is connected to the stolen cart?’

‘He means to take Dame Marian from us. And in exchange give us stones for our orchard wall,’ a sniff, ‘and his protégée in exchange. She who is deemed inadequate for the grand Wherwell but fine for us, so small, so insignificant.’ The last words came out more of a hiss than speech.

‘Is the bishop here now?’ Owen asked.

‘No. He is lodging with Dom Jehannes, the Archdeacon of York.’

Doubtless the reason the archdeacon wished to see him this morning.

‘But the sisters will lodge here,’ the prioress continued. She glanced at both of them, then belatedly asked, ‘Would you care for some refreshment? You look as if you have been riding a while.’

‘A cup of wine would be welcome,’ said Sir Ralph.

Isobel gestured toward the servant standing near the door, who hurried out.

As they sipped their wine, Sir Ralph explained that the attack had occurred on his property, a man – either one of the carter’s men or one of the attackers – died of his injuries, but he did not go into detail, and Mother Isobel did not ask. Her complaint was in the unexpected arrival of the sisters, who must be lodged, and the insulting imbalance of Wykeham’s proposed trade – an unwanted subcantrice and a cart of stones in exchange for the most excellent Dame Marian, who had proved an inspiring, knowledgeable, and organized cantrice, transforming the priory’s feeble-voiced sisters into a choir that drew worshippers – and their purses – to the chapel on Sundays and feast days.

‘A cartload of stones seems a paltry compensation,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘What does His Grace expect you to do with it?’

‘Those coming by cart are from a site not far from here, ornamental, to be used, His Grace suggested, as an archway near the chapel. More are arriving by barge to repair the orchard wall.’ Mother Isobel sniffed. ‘It seems our confessor has been His Grace’s confidant.’

‘No doubt he meant well,’ said Sir Ralph.

‘Or hoped to be invited to Winchester.’ The prioress brushed invisible lint from her sleeve.

Owen was more interested in Wykeham’s motivation in traveling so far with what the prioress described as a modest retinue – two priests, two servants, the sisters, and their servants. ‘He travelled with so few?’

The prioress nodded. ‘Garbed as a humble priest. Had I not met him on his previous visit to York years ago I might have – well, one does not know what to say of such behavior. His Grace was quite clear we were to say nothing to anyone about his presence.’

No wonder Owen had felt the familiar needle pricks beneath his eye patch. On his last visitation, Bishop Wykeham had brought death to York. The corpse of a midwife dear to Lucie and many in York was found in the ashes of a fire in the bishop’s town house on Petergate. The woman had been murdered. Owen’s gut told him that once again Wykeham was the catalyst for death in the city.

God grant the dead man and the theft be the extent of the trouble this time.

As they parted inside Micklegate Bar, Owen asked, ‘Do you want to talk to Gerald Trent when I bring him to view the body?’

The sheriff waved away the suggestion. ‘I have other matters to attend.’

‘Of course.’

‘But I am eager for your report. Tomorrow morning? By then I hope to know whether the mayor wishes you to proceed with the inquiry.’

With Wykeham involved, Owen had no doubt this was now his investigation. ‘I will come to the castle early on the morrow to tell you all I’ve discovered. Toward that end I am heading straight for Dom Jehannes’s house.’

‘Would you wish me to accompany you?’

‘It is kind of you to offer, Sir Ralph, but I think it better I speak with His Grace alone. If you would tell my men to search the city for rumors of strangers or sightings of a cart of stones, and bring any news to my home.’

‘It is the least I can do. I am grateful, Captain. I do not like the feel of this.’

‘Nor do I.’

Brother Michaelo’s eyes swept Owen from head to toe. ‘Long journey out to see the corpse?’

‘Much farther than I expected. It might have been worse. But the sheriff provided good mounts from his stable.’ Owen glanced past him. ‘Wykeham is here?’

A raised brow. ‘When did you learn of his presence?’

‘At St Clement’s Priory. Sir Ralph and I stopped to warn Mother Isobel of the cart’s disappearance. She told me he was lodging here.’

‘Ah, the cart of stones that never arrived.’ Michaelo nodded. ‘The dead man is one of the carter’s missing men?’

‘Likely. The carter reported the theft. After he spent a night at the York Tavern. But the sheriff already knew of the murder.’

‘A murder. Ah. How did Sir Ralph learn of it?’

‘He owns the land. Might I come within and speak with His Grace?’

A slow grin. ‘If that is your pleasure.’

Owen ignored that. ‘Do not go far. If he agrees, I will want you to act as my scribe.’

‘Scribe,’ Michaelo muttered as he escorted Owen past two priests sitting by the fire and showed him into Jehannes’s parlor. ‘His Grace should soon be here. Jehannes took him to see the work on the minster. You know his delight in all matters pertaining to building works. Despite the incident some years past.’

Before the fire and the woman’s death, a falling roof tile had barely missed the bishop as he inspected the construction of the minster’s lady chapel.

‘I presume the bishop was in a foul temper when he arrived, and Jehannes sought to sweeten his mood by showing him the progress on the lady chapel?’ said Owen.

‘Indeed.’

‘What does he want?’

‘That is not yet clear. As you doubtless know, his travel companions included two sisters from Wherwell Abbey who seek the aid of Mother Isobel in convincing Dame Marian to return to Wherwell. It seems their new abbess is dissatisfied with Wykeham’s protégée and he … wishes to make amends.’ A sniff. ‘I find it difficult to believe, but he sounded sincere. Even so, why he came himself, and why he wished to lodge with Jehannes – nothing he said explained that to my satisfaction.’ The monk lifted his elegant head as if listening to something outside the door. ‘I believe they have returned. I will send Perkin with wine. And stand ready to play scribe.’ He bowed out.

With an absurd sense of preparing to meet his doom, Owen settled into one of two chairs arranged near the window of Jehannes’s parlor, thanking the manservant who entered with wine, bread, and cheese. Perkin, the new cook. An older man, he seemed familiar, but was gone before Owen could ask whether they might have met before. Relaxing his head against the high back of the chair, he noticed a weariness, of body but also of heart. Jasper and Gwenllian. Why would his son refuse to believe the younger sister who adored him? A memory arose, his sister Gwen, the trickster of the family, blamed for something that had in truth been an accident. A branch damaged by a storm so recently that the leaves had not yet lost luster. Owen had climbed out just far enough to snap it, tumbling down into the grass and badly spraining a leg. He had blamed her for an hour or two, until his father showed him the uneven break in the branch and the dry edges of the leaves. Shame had kept him from admitting he had been wrong to blame Gwen. But when she apologized to him for not having seen that the branch was dying, he relented. That she would take the responsibility solely because she meant with her jests to provoke laughter, not pain – no, he refused to lay the burden on her and accepted his own culpability. Would Jasper see? Was there any way Owen might help?

He pushed away those thoughts. At least they had cleared the dread. He poured himself some wine and was appreciating the first sip when someone knocked on the door, opening it without waiting for him to respond.

William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester and sometime Lord Chancellor of England, entered the room.

‘Thank you for coming, Captain.’

He settled in the other chair before Owen could rise in deference. He wore a plain wool houpelande and leggings, brown, unadorned but for green embroidery on the sleeves. Never a large man, he was thinner than Owen had seen him in the past. There was a pinched quality to his mouth, the lines around his eyes were more prominent, and what little hair remained was gray. A neat beard followed his jawline, like Owen’s. That was new.

‘I understand you are now captain of the city,’ said Wykeham. ‘Did John Thoresby arrange for that before he died?’

‘No. The mayor and council approached me.’

‘Princess Joan did not oppose the idea?’

‘On the contrary, Her Grace approved of it as a way to assure the king’s peace in York.’

‘Do you feel tugged in two directions?’

A frequent question. ‘I do not.’

‘Most fortunate. You were occupied earlier today. I understand it was the sheriff, Sir Ralph Hastings, who summoned you. About a murder on the road north to the city.’

Nodding, Owen asked whether Brother Michaelo might join them. ‘He works closely with me in both my roles, as secretary and scribe. It would be useful for him to make note of all that we discuss regarding my morning. You will understand why when I begin.’

‘The late archbishop’s secretary now serves you?’

‘Among others.’

‘As I recall, he was a fallen monk. A poisoner.’

‘Redeemed through service to a good man.’

A thin smile. ‘You refer to the late archbishop as a good man now, but I recall the two of you often sparring.’

‘One can as easily disagree with a good man as a bad. We came to respect each other. He stood as godfather to my children.’

‘I do recall him speaking of that. And this Brother Michaelo. You trust him?’

‘Over time he has proved himself trustworthy, yes. I now find him an excellent assistant.’

‘He is discreet?’

‘Remarkably so.’

Wykeham gestured toward the door. ‘Call him.’

Brother Michaelo waited on a bench in the corridor, on his lap the items he would need. As he rose, he nodded toward the kitchen. ‘Alfred awaits you when you are finished here. He has news.’ With no more ado he swept into Jehannes’s parlor, taking a seat near Owen, facing the bishop, and quietly arranged his things on a small table.

Owen launched into an account of the morning’s discoveries, and what he had learned about Trent from Sir Ralph.

Wykeham grew increasingly pale as Owen spoke. ‘That my gesture should be tarnished by violence.’ He pressed his forehead, whispered a short prayer for the dead. ‘I am glad you are in charge of the investigation. I know you as a fair man.’

He had not always thought so. Owen wondered what had changed his opinion. ‘Might I ask how you come to know Gerald Trent?’ Owen asked. ‘Does he often serve as your carter?’

‘He does. A long while. Years.’

‘But he hires his own help?’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, but I have more questions.’

Wykeham poured himself a cup of wine, sat back, motioning for him to proceed.

‘His home is near Winchester?’

‘It is.’

‘Is it not unusual for a carter to journey so far from his business? Why not find someone closer to York. Or to the quarry?’

‘For the ornamental stones from the quarry south of York, I thought the same, and asked him to suggest someone. But he offered to do it himself. Apparently he had a delivery between Winchester and the quarry. He would take the opportunity to explore the possibility of expanding his business to the north. As the larger part of the delivery is coming by barge it was no more convenient to arrange for someone nearer.’

‘He has a partner up here?’

‘I did not ask. It was enough that he agreed to my schedule.’

‘As to that schedule, have the stones arrived as well, the ones coming by barge?’

‘Not yet, no. I presume Trent is seeing to it.’

‘How did you know of the crumbling wall?’

‘Clergy passing through York stopped at St Clement’s to view the milk of the Blessed Mother. They mentioned the poor workmanship on the orchard wall near the church, so unworthy a home for the holy relic. I wrote to the priory’s confessor and he provided more detail.’

‘Why not make a donation for the work?’

‘Why indeed?’ Wykeham’s gaze moved beyond Owen to the window. ‘It was all part of my attempt to appease Cecily, Abbess of Wherwell. I wished to speak to Dame Marian myself, and offer a suitable gift to the Prioress of St Clement’s. All had gone terribly wrong.’

‘Was Dame Marian receptive?’ Owen knew her well.

‘I cannot tell what is in her mind. But what is clear is that the prioress thought the proposed exchange an insult.’

‘Nothing has yet been decided?’

‘No. We will speak again.’

‘Concerning Trent, have you had any previous trouble with him?’

‘I would not patronize him if he were not competent,’ the bishop said sharply, more in character with the Wykeham of yore. Then he shook his head. ‘No, that is not entirely true. According to my chamberlain there were irregularities. Complaints from the masons that Trent demanded additional funds or delayed delivery.’

‘You confronted him about this?’

‘I did. He made excuses, a shortage of certain types of stone, too-demanding masons, builders who did not understand the logistics, on and on. I told him we would be watching him. No more incidents. I believe his offer to complete this mission was his attempt to make amends. Much as I was.’ He massaged his temples, his expression one of dismay. ‘I regret engaging him.’

Yet at first he had declared him competent. ‘You will be summoning him before you?’

‘I will. Doubtless he will blame it all on his hired men, and beg to lodge here, at the archdeacon’s expense. I will not have it.’

Brother Michaelo mumbled something unintelligible as his stylus scratched away on the wax tablets.

‘And I trust you will be questioning him?’ Wykeham added.

‘I plan to do that next,’ said Owen. ‘It seems he is lodging near my home.’

‘An odd coincidence.’

‘That was my thought.’

Wykeham sighed. ‘You will keep me informed about what you discover?’

‘Of course.’

‘We must talk further, about this and another, urgent, matter. I will detain you no longer today, but I give you this to read at your leisure.’ He slipped a sealed letter from his sleeve, holding it out to Owen. ‘I will ask my generous host when it might be convenient to invite you and your wife the apothecary to dine with us.’

‘My wife?’

‘Many at court speak highly of her, and the letter writer suggested it would facilitate matters were she included in our conversation.’

Mystery of mysteries. Owen accepted the letter with unease.

In the kitchen, Alfred was drinking ale while talking to Perkin. The cook quickly moved away as Owen and Michaelo approached.

‘A skittish sort,’ Owen said softly, for Michaelo’s ears.

‘He is.’

Tossing back the rest of his ale and collecting a leather pouch containing something that clattered, Alfred joined Owen and Michaelo. He held out the pouch.

‘We found this tucked into a cart filled with stones abandoned on Toft Green. Caught several would-be thieves. They took few stones as each one is an armful. Old Salt was the one who found this. She tried to keep it from our Stephen. A strong old woman, but Stephen always wins.’

One-legged and toothless, Old Salt was one of the poor who begged for alms at St Mary’s and slept near the minster. She rarely stole unless the object was worth enough coin to change her life. Owen was most curious what she had hoped to keep from Stephen, his strongest man.

The pouch was heavy for its size. Within were tools rolled up in sheepskin. Owen unrolled enough to discover a fine chisel, clean and sharp. It had a good balance in the hand. ‘Old Salt has an eye for value. His Grace might wish to see these.’

By the time Owen had spread the tools out on the table, Michaelo returned with Wykeham. The bishop examined them with interest. He, too, tested the balance, lifting each one, murmuring to himself. Owen caught words such as ‘fine lines’ and ‘delicate curves’. At last Wykeham stepped back, shaking his head.

‘Trent had no need for a stone carver’s tools. He was delivering material to repair a wall, not for statuary.’

‘Can you think of a reason why these would be left in the cart, Your Grace?’ Owen asked.

‘None. I will be interested to hear how Trent explains this. Who discovered them?’

Owen introduced Alfred. ‘My lieutenant.’

‘Good work,’ said Wykeham, and, with a nod, he withdrew.

‘Is Old Salt injured?’ asked Michaelo. He had taken it as his mission to attend the poor who lived in the shacks on the south end of the minster.

‘She looks frail, but the strength of her grip surprised Stephen,’ said Alfred. ‘I did notice her rubbing her arm when she hastened away.’

‘I will go to her,’ said Michaelo. ‘She is usually to be found at the alms gate outside the abbey walls at this time.’

‘Would she tell you whether the tools were in plain view or she saw someone stash them there?’ asked Owen.

‘She might.’

‘Send word to me if you learn anything. I will be at the York Tavern, and then home.’ It had been a long morning.

As Owen and Alfred moved through the minster yard, they paused to show the master mason and some of his men the pack of tools. Much admiration, but no one recognized it.

‘Costly,’ said the master mason. ‘Whoever lost these tools will search for them.’

Of that, Owen had no doubt. As they moved on, he asked Alfred about the condition of the stones.

‘Any blood on them? Or the cart?’

‘I saw none. The stone is very fine. Much like that here, on the minster.’

A costly gift to the priory.