A Spy For The Redeemer

Nine

The archbishop’s manor at Bishopthorpe bustled with spring activities. Men crawled about the gutters like spiders, making repairs. A glazier and his assistant worked at one of the hall windows. Several servants crept through the rose garden, adding new crushed rock to the paths. Another team of workers were planting seedlings in the kitchen garden.

John Thoresby had come outside to warm his stiff joints in the sunshine. He had not expected so much activity. All the chores had been ordered by him, it was true, to be begun when the weather calmed. But that they should all be attacked at once was bothersome when he was in residence. It was time Owen Archer returned from Wales and resumed his duties as steward of Bishopthorpe. He approached the position with logic and courtesy. Thoresby suspected that the Bishop of St David’s had discovered Archer’s talents. Adam de Houghton was a grasping sort. One had only to look at how he wooed Lancaster, involving him in his pious scheme to collect the vicars into a college where they might be supervised. Houghton meant to be Lord Chancellor one of these days. Might he find joy in it. But he could not have Archer. Thoresby had sent a messenger to Wales, recalling his man in no uncertain terms, telling him how Alice Baker had stirred up trouble and assorted other items that would lure him home. The duke’s request for Archer’s help in recruiting archers for his French campaign had been reasonable and, in truth, how could Thoresby deny him when his purpose was the defence of the realm? But surely Archer had completed the task by now. It was not possible Friar Hewald had yet delivered the letter, but he was well on his way to Cydweli.

Thoresby grumbled at the annoying hammering overhead. Perhaps it was quiet down in the river gardens. He turned away from the house. As he passed the gardener’s shed, he heard an odd, sucking sound. Simon the gardener had suffered several attacks of catarrh during the wet spring, the last one lingering and bringing on a fever that had everyone worried. Fearing the man might be taking ill again, Thoresby pushed open the door.

Simon looked up, a curse dying on his lips as he recognised the intruder. He was elbow deep in a pungent mud and dung bath, kneading it like dough. ‘Your Grace!’ He began to withdraw his arms, the mud noisily sucking at them. ‘Stinking mud makes fragrant roses.’

‘Do not stop, Simon.’ Thoresby could imagine the man forgetting himself and touching his face with those disgusting hands. The odour was overpowering. The archbishop shielded his mouth and nose with his forearm. ‘I merely wondered at the sound. I did not mean to disturb you.’

‘Your Grace is always welcome,’ Simon said. ‘But I do not blame you for retreating. My good wife has never been reconciled with this muck. She will send me down to the river this evening to wash before I set foot in the house.’

‘She will not heat up water for you?’

Simon chuckled. ‘My good wife has many mouths to feed and clothe, and no more hours in the day than we do, eh?’

‘No, of course not.’ If they used some restraint they might not have such a clutch of children. ‘May God watch over all of you,’ Thoresby said as he withdrew.

Outside, as Thoresby gulped the fresh air, he heard a horse trotting into the yard. Yesterday a galloping horse had brought news of a band of outlaws attacking Freythorpe Hadden. Was there more ill news? A high hedge blocked his view. Curious, Thoresby retraced his steps to the top of the path. Brother Michaelo. His secretary returned at last. Excellent. No doubt he would wish to speak with Thoresby at once, but the archbishop wished to enjoy the day. He resumed his quest for a quiet spot in the sun. Tonight was soon enough to speak with Michaelo.

After much thought, Lucie sent a note to Roger Moreton suggesting that Harold Galfrey accompany her to the High Sheriff the following day rather than Roger. Harold could bear witness to her tale, then be on his way back to the manor. Roger expressed disappointment in his reply, but agreed that Harold was the better choice. He would inform his steward of the appointment.

The evening was chilly enough for a fire in the hall, but the air still so sweet that Thoresby had the servants set up a table and chairs near an open casement. Brother Michaelo had not been seated long when he asked permission to move his chair closer to the fire, away from the evening air. Thoresby motioned to the servant behind him to make it so. He did not doubt his secretary’s complaint. What flesh had he left to warm him? Indeed, Thoresby’s former secretary, Jehannes, now Archdeacon of York, thought Brother Michaelo much affected by his journey into Wales. Jehannes had dined with the archbishop the previous day.

‘During his brief stay in York I found him much subdued, spending most of his time in prayer,’ Jehannes had said.

But Thoresby noted that Michaelo still fussed with his carefully tailored sleeves, ensuring that they lay neatly on the arms of the chair. Gaunt he was, and mourning the death of Sir Robert D’Arby he seemed to be. But Thoresby did not see a holy man before him.

‘You took your time returning,’ the archbishop said.

Brother Michaelo glanced over at the servant, down at the flagon of wine, the cups. ‘I should be honoured to wait on both of us, Your Grace.’ He cocked an eyebrow towards the servant.

Intriguing. He must have something to say he did not wish the servants to hear. Thoresby waved the man out of the room.

‘I accompanied Mistress Wilton to Freythorpe Hadden, to speak to Dame Phillippa about Sir Robert’s last days.’ Michaelo paused with a questioning look, as if belatedly asking permission.

Thoresby motioned for him to continue.

‘We encountered difficulties,’ Michaelo began, and proceeded to tell Thoresby about the outlaws at Freythorpe Hadden. No wonder Michaelo looked exhausted. ‘Mistress Wilton intends to report it to the High Sheriff,’ the monk concluded.

‘Tell Chamont?’ said Thoresby. ‘Ha! Precious little he will do. If he is even in residence at York Castle.’

Brother Michaelo handed him a letter. ‘From Mistress Wilton.’

Thoresby read quickly, disturbed by how well the thieves knew the hall. He was glad she had the sense to return to York. A few retainers was a sound request. This he could certainly do for the mother of his godchildren. ‘I shall send some men at once,’ he said, laying the letter aside. ‘Is she safe even in York?’

Michaelo frowned at the question. ‘I had assumed so, Your Grace. But if you doubt it … Perhaps we should have a talk with the bailiff.’ He rose to pour wine.

‘Bailiffs react after the damage is done. I need Archer here.’

‘I am certain that Mistress Wilton feels the same, Your Grace.’

Sarcasm? Thoresby glanced up at his secretary as he handed him a cup of wine. His eyes were cast down, his expression unreadable. What did it matter? Thoresby set the cup on the table, rose to stand by the window. How sweet was the evening air; how transient was such a moment. He stood there a while, breathing, thinking. Michaelo’s tale and Lucie’s letter troubled him. It did not sound like the usual outlawry. He turned, found Michaelo pouring himself another cup of wine.

‘What troubles me is the gatehouse,’ Thoresby said.

Michaelo glanced up with a puzzled expression.

‘With Sir Robert’s death, Mistress Wilton now owns the manor and after her it goes to Hugh. There is no doubt about that, I suppose? Did Sir Robert mention any problems? Relations who might claim the property? Old enemies?’

‘None, Your Grace.’ Michaelo drew a cloth from his sleeve, dabbed his high forehead. ‘But I had not thought to ask.’ His face was lined with worry.

Thoresby waved away his concern. ‘In faith, it is not the sort of thing one asks a dying friend.’ He had an uncomfortable suspicion about Michaelo’s concern for the family of Sir Robert D’Arby. ‘You are most changed in regard to Sir Robert.’

‘I had the greatest respect and admiration for him.’

‘You have rarely shown such affection for the aged.’ Handsome young men or men who might further his ambitions, yes.

Michaelo shot from his chair, indignation staining his cheeks. ‘Your Grace! I have not broken my vow. And to think such a thing about Sir Robert!’

‘Resume your seat, Michaelo. I did not mean to offend you — though you cannot find it strange I should wonder occasionally. The flesh is not insensitive, however one may struggle against the devil. But just then I merely wondered what you had hoped to gain by your devotion.’ He sighed as the monk hovered overhead, aflutter with indignation. ‘Sit!’

Michaelo sank back down.

‘An ill-considered topic. Forgive me.’ Michaelo said nothing. ‘Are we at peace?’ Thoresby asked. ‘Can we continue?’

Michaelo lifted his head slightly, let it drop back down, chin on chest.

Thoresby took it for an unenthusiastic, melodramatic nod. Some things had not changed. ‘I shall send Alfred and Gilbert to Freythorpe Hadden. Archer has taught them to think, which is helpful in this sort of circumstance, though inconvenient in others.’

Michaelo raised his head. ‘Do you wish me to go to them?’

‘No. I shall send one of the servants with the message. We have letters to write. To the sheriff and to Archer. I have already sent for the captain, but this tale should spur him on.’

Michaelo relaxed. ‘You have sent for the captain, Your Grace?’

‘Can you think of a worse time for him to be away from his family?’

‘He hoped to be on his way home by now.’

‘Excellent. He should be here.’

Michaelo tilted his head, as if considering. ‘That is kind of you.’

‘Kindness has nothing to do with it.’ Thoresby moved ahead. ‘What of this Harold Galfrey? You say he has been a steward. Of such extensive lands? Freythorpe Hadden is a great responsibility. The steward must play far more roles than Archer plays as my steward. Is this man competent?’

‘I know little about him, Your Grace. A respected merchant of York, Roger Moreton, hired him as his steward, on the recommendation of John Gisburne.’

‘Gisburne. His recommendation carries no weight with me. Quite the opposite, truth be told.’

‘I have heard the rumours regarding Gisburne. But Mistress Wilton trusts Master Moreton’s opinion. He truly is well respected.’

‘Perhaps he is, but if he takes Gisburne’s recommendation, he is likely to be a fool when it comes to hiring men. It does not sound to me as if Mistress Wilton asked sufficient questions. I must enquire about Harold Galfrey.’

Michaelo looked pained.

‘What is it?’

‘It was I who urged Mistress Wilton to consider Galfrey as temporary steward, Your Grace. It is I who asks too few questions.’

‘A pretty courtesy, Michaelo. Let us eat, then see to the letters.’

The morning brought chaos to Lucie’s house. Gwenllian feared that Lucie meant to disappear for another few days and clung to her skirts when she would leave the house for her appointment with the High Sheriff. Phillippa chided Lucie for not taking a switch to the child. Jasper belatedly announced that the guild master had called while Lucie was away, wishing to discuss Alice Baker’s accusations. He wished to see Lucie as soon as possible. Harold arrived at the door while Lucie sat in the kitchen trying to get Jasper to repeat everything the guild master had said. Phillippa said that the boy was merely trying to protect her from gossip. Jasper insisted that he was not keeping anything from her, he just could not remember all that Guild Master Thorpe had said. Harold took Gwenllian out into the garden.

When at last Lucie joined them there, Gwenllian was merrily teasing Crowder with a string on which she had tied a sprig of catmint. Harold lounged on a bench, trying to do a cat’s cradle. He looked rested and cheerful.

Lucie tried not to notice the warmth in his startling blue eyes as she sank down beside him. ‘I think I shall go mad before sunset,’ she said.

‘I have seen the baker’s wife and heard the gossip,’ said Harold. ‘No one believes you are in the wrong. They all know Alice Baker thinks herself an alchemist.’

‘What matters is what the guild believes. There are members who think I never should have been accepted, and for certain do not deserve the honour of “master”. It is not enough for them that being a woman I am left out of the ceremonies, the meetings …’ And why was she confiding in her steward? Lucie stood up, shook out her skirt. ‘Shall we attend the High Sheriff?’ She was halfway to the house when she realised Harold had not followed her. She turned back, found him standing by the bench, his hands behind his back, watching her with an uncertain air. Lucie retraced her steps. ‘What is it?’

Looking uncomfortable, not meeting her eye, he said, ‘I pray I do not offend you, but I have asked Master Moreton to carry a letter to the High Sheriff from me. He awaits word that you agree.’

Did Harold wish to avoid her? She felt her face grow hot and was glad he did not see. Could he tell she had dressed with care, for him? That she had looked forward to the walk across the city, with him? ‘Why?’ she asked, her voice an inappropriate whisper.

Now he met her eyes. ‘I wish to leave at once for Freythorpe Hadden. I am uneasy … I woke with a feeling that I should return as soon as I could.’

Lucie searched his face for dissimulation. He looked sincere, which chilled her. ‘What do you fear has happened in our absence?’

‘I pray nothing more has happened, but that I am belatedly realising the danger we faced. I had little time to think about it until last night. And then — ’ He raked his hand through his hair. ‘I thought of what might have been, do you see? If the gatekeeper and his family had been in the gatehouse when the outlaws set the fire.’

‘Where were Walter and his family?’

‘In the kitchen, having their evening meal.’

‘God watched over them.’

‘Think how those left behind feel today. Every noise must be investigated with pounding heart.’

‘You must go, of course. I — ’ Lucie touched his hand, moved by his concern. ‘I thank you.’

He put his other hand over hers, pressed it, stepped closer, lifted her hand and kissed it, all the while looking deep into her eyes.

The warmth that infused Lucie’s body with Harold’s kiss warned her to step back, remember where she was, who she was. She withdrew her hand.

‘And that is the other reason I should depart quickly,’ Harold said. ‘Forgive me.’ He turned towards Gwenllian, calling to her.

The child came rushing over. Harold scooped her into the air and twirled her about, making her dark curls dance. She hugged him as he lowered her to the ground.

‘I shall be off, my little love. Your mother has ordered me to ride off in defence of her castle.’

‘What castle?’

‘Freythorpe Hadden. It is as large as a castle.’

Gwenllian looked disappointed. ‘Will you be back?’

‘Of course I will!’

Lucie pulled Gwenllian close, hugging her as she watched Harold leave the garden, reminding herself that the man was no match for Owen.

Roger Moreton appeared moments later, dressed in the livery of his guild — to impress the High Sheriff with his standing, Lucie guessed. In the end, he might be of more help to her than Harold would have been. Perhaps more important, she did not have to watch her behaviour towards Roger.

‘You do not mind the change in plans?’ Roger asked, obviously reading something in Lucie’s expression.

‘Not at all.’ With one last hug and a kiss, Lucie let go of Gwenllian, who skipped away to search for Crowder. Lucie rose, smiling. ‘It is good of you to leave your work to escort me.’

‘I am glad to do it.’ He drew a letter from his scrip. ‘Harold wrote down what he had noted, things you did not see. He hoped that it would be of use.’

‘Then we are well prepared. Shall we depart?’

They said little as they passed through the crowds in Thursday Market, down Feasegate, across Coney and over Ousegate into Nessgate. Lucie worried about Phillippa — she had seemed lucid earlier, but just now she had been pacing the hall, muttering to herself, oblivious of Lucie’s or Roger’s presence. Had this deterioration worsened with the shock of recent events, or had she been this distracted all winter? She had received no clear picture from the servants.

‘It sounds as if Harold was of great service to you,’ Roger said, glancing over at Lucie with an odd expression. Worry? Could he read her mind?

‘He was indeed. God bless you for proposing him.’

‘Um.’

What was he thinking? Could he tell how she felt? How Harold felt? She must know. ‘You are far away.’

‘Forgive me, I am — ’ Roger stopped in the middle of Nessgate. ‘I hope you are not offended, but I took it upon myself to have a word with Camden Thorpe about Alice Baker’s accusations.’

His admission was so far from what Lucie had feared that she was silent a moment, absorbing it. Anger quickly replaced concern. ‘You spoke to my guild master?’ Two men walking past glanced over. Lucie realised how loud she had been and lowered her voice. ‘What right had you? Do you think me a child who cannot speak for herself?’

Roger glanced round, anxious about the scene he had created. ‘Perhaps we should continue walking.’

‘No. Not until you explain yourself.’

‘You are angry. Camden said you would be. He advised me to say nothing to you and promised to say nothing himself. But I wished you to know. I regret interfering. It was not right. I beg your forgiveness.’

‘What possessed you to defend me to my guild master? What could you possibly say? Are you an apothecary, have you acquired the knowledge to argue my innocence?’

‘I merely thought a word from a fellow merchant — ’

‘A word?’ Lucie could not believe his naïveté.

Roger hung his head. ‘He thought it as inappropriate as you do.’

‘Do you intend to do the same with the High Sheriff?’

‘I swear I shall hold my tongue.’

What must the guild master think about her relationship with Roger? Dear heaven, the man was a fool. But looking at his chagrin, Lucie reined in her anger. ‘You meant to be a good friend, I know. But you have made things even more difficult for me.’

‘I told you — he knows that you knew nothing about my going to see him.’

Lucie shook her head. She did not have the energy to argue. ‘You are certain you can hold your tongue at this meeting?’

‘I swear. I shall wait without if you prefer.’

‘That should not be necessary.’ Her anger was fading. Alice Baker had caused Lucie’s trouble with the guild, not Roger. ‘But I shall never forgive you if you break your vow.’

Looking relieved, Roger bowed, crooking his arm for her to grasp. ‘Castlegate flooded in the rains. It will be slippery.’

They said little to one another as they made their way down the muddy street to York Castle. Lucie wondered whether all castles were so crowded. Here were housed numerous officers of the King, including the Master of the Mint, the two Keepers of the Exchange, the two custodians of the King’s Merchant Seal in York, the Keeper of the Foss-fishpond, the Keeper of Galtres Forest and the High Sheriff, who was the sheriff of the county. It also housed a gaol. She always felt under scrutiny for some unknown wrong when she entered the bailey. She tried to ignore the bustle about her, attempting to order her thoughts. But she gave up as Roger steered her through a crowd watching a flogging, past armed guards surrounding several carts being unloaded at the Exchequer, through the smoke from the mint furnaces, to the sheriff’s hall, which had once belonged to the Templars. At the door, Lucie withdrew her hand from Roger’s arm and fussed with her veil. She wished to make a good impression on John Chamont, the High Sheriff, so that he would see she was not whining about a mere theft of baubles.

Chamont’s clerk listened to her brief account with a solemn face, which heartened her, then showed her in to the High Sheriff’s chamber.

The moment Lucie stepped inside, she knew she was wasting her time. John Chamont sat behind a large, exquisitely carved table on which a young boy and a puppy rolled about. An elegantly dressed woman, in silks and velvets and a gossamer veil, sat in the corner behind the High Sheriff, fussing with a servant about something. Mistress Chamont, Lucie guessed.

The clerk announced Lucie and Roger. Mistress Chamont hissed an order. The servant scooped up the boy in one arm, the puppy in the other, and hurried past the clerk and the visitors out of the room. Mistress Chamont then rose, nodded towards Lucie and Roger, and followed the departed servant with a slow, regal stride.

John Chamont frowned at the door, then at Lucie. ‘Mistress Wilton, Apothecary?’ He beckoned his clerk to his side. The clerk hurried over. After much whispering back and forth, he stepped back and Chamont looked up. ‘Ah.’ He nodded in Lucie’s direction. ‘Outlaws at Freythorpe Hadden.’ He expressed his sympathy. ‘His Grace the Archbishop has written to me of this, expressing his concern. You are fortunate in your friends.’

‘I came to tell you what I know. And the man who is assisting me with my steward’s responsibilities has provided information that may be of help.’ She handed him Harold’s letter, which he passed to the clerk behind him.

‘We shall let you know if the outlaws are apprehended,’ Chamont said with a benign smile.

The clerk bowed to the High Sheriff, then came round the table towards Lucie and Roger.

‘You do not wish to hear my report?’

‘My clerk will take your statement.’ The High Sheriff waved his clerk to the door, smoothed his elegant houppelande as he rose from his chair.

‘This is the extent of your duty?’ she burst out. ‘To receive letters and make empty assurances?’

‘Mistress Wilton, what more can I promise you? I do not think you need fear another attack. Such thieves rarely return.’

Roger stepped forward, his face red with anger. ‘If you will pardon me, sir, simple thieves rarely do such damage.’ Lucie had never heard such a chill in his voice.

Chamont did not notice. ‘Most unfortunate. But an accident, I am sure. The fire was meant to frighten you and did more damage than intended.’

‘Are such fires common?’ Lucie asked.

Chamont wagged his head. ‘Barns are often set alight to create confusion. The point is, your losses might have been far worse. Your maids were not raped, your steward will recover. Others have not been so fortunate.’

‘Fortunate,’ Lucie repeated in disbelief.

The High Sheriff suddenly focused on her, his eyes surprisingly intense and not at all cordial. ‘You make me wonder, Mistress Wilton. You pursue this as if you fear a particular enemy is behind the attack on Freythorpe Hadden. Is that so? Are you in trouble of some sort?’

His turnabout caught her unprepared, as she guessed it was meant to do. ‘I know of no enemies.’ Surely Alice Baker would not go to such lengths.

He looked for a moment as if he doubted her reply, but said, ‘Then there is nothing to fear, for one surely knows one’s enemies.’

Lucie had seen his sharpness; knew he was not that simple. It was merely a convenient assurance.

‘As for the goods.’ Chamont shook his head. ‘Silver and gold plate, jewels, costly silks, livestock, tapestries from all over the shire. How many men would I need to recover all those treasures? Of course, if I apprehend the outlaws — I am quite certain it is all the work of a small band of men — I may indeed discover their hoard. And if I do, you shall know at once. I promise you, Mistress Wilton.’

‘I am much consoled,’ Lucie said. She saw little point in courtesy. Polite or rude, it mattered not to Chamont.

As if agreeing, the High Sheriff bowed to her.

Lucie and Roger withdrew. As they stepped out into the castle yard, Roger suggested a walk down to St George’s Field, where the Foss and the Ouse converged.

Lucie, feeling oppressed both by the experience and the unpleasant steam from the mint furnaces, the press of the crowd round yet another flogging, welcomed a walk in the air. The rivers did not always smell pleasant downstream of the city, carrying the city waste and that of the tanners and butchers, but sometimes at their confluence the air was fresher. And the wide open sky would surely lift her spirits.

‘When such a man accepts the title of High Sheriff,’ Roger said, ‘he thinks only of the prestige, not the responsibility.’

‘I should like to be quiet, Roger,’ Lucie said.

‘Of course. But — you are not angry that I spoke?’

Lucie pressed his arm. ‘Not at all. Your anger may not have stirred him, but I appreciated it.’ As they passed the mills, and the field on which Owen trained the local men in archery, Lucie considered the High Sheriff’s question about enemies. Was it possible that Sir Robert had enemies about whom she knew nothing? Or Owen? Surely in Owen’s work for the archbishop he had angered people. But how was one to discover such an enemy? The river made her think of Magda Digby. The Riverwoman had agreed to go to Freythorpe Hadden. Now Lucie had another purpose for seeing her.

But first she must deal with Camden Thorpe and Alice Baker’s accusations.

They stood at the edge of the fields, as if on the prow of a boat, except that the water flowed past them in the wrong direction. The breeze from the river was cool and damp, the sun hot above, the soil damp below. Lucie felt caught between winter and summer. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun.

‘You look content,’ said Roger.

‘God’s grace is in this moment,’ said Lucie. ‘I pray it is a sign that I shall soon understand what has happened.’

Guild Master Camden Thorpe had a substantial stone house on St Saviourgate. Lucie and Owen knew the family well — Gwenllian was named for Mistress Thorpe, her godmother. Camden’s warehouses sat to one side of the house and in between was a small courtyard in which Gwen Thorpe managed to coax several trees to grow. She had also trained ivy up the facing walls of the warehouses. It was a lovely setting.

Lucie had parted from Roger at Thursday Market, preferring to face her guild master alone.

A servant opened the door and, recognising Lucie, ran to fetch her mistress before Lucie could ask for Camden.

A large, handsome woman bustled to the door, one of her youngest children toddling after her. ‘God bless you, Lucie, you must forgive Mary. It would not occur to her that this is not a time you would come to sit and chat with me. It is Camden you are wanting, of course. He is in the warehouse just across the yard.’ She put a hand on Lucie’s. ‘Your father’s passing is a great loss. God grant him peace. I shall attend the Requiem tomorrow.’

It was a mark of their friendship that Mistress Thorpe would take time out from her household — she had many children and a full staff, as well as two of her husband’s apprentices and several servants who worked in the warehouses to feed. And as a guild master and alderman, Master Thorpe must needs entertain frequently.

‘It will be a comfort to have you there,’ Lucie said.

‘Go on, then, tell him what a fool Alice Baker is. We all know it. Then if you have time, stop back here for some cakes for my godchild and her little brother.’

Gwen’s friendly manner had taken the edge off Lucie’s mood. As she crossed the yard to the warehouses she felt less as if she were meeting with an adversary.

Her good mood faded as she heard Camden’s voice raised in anger. Two servants huddled over a cask and the smell of wine permeated the vast room. She began to back away, thinking it might go easier for her if she caught him in a better mood. But Camden noticed one of the servants looking up at her and turned to see who had witnessed his outburst.

‘Mistress Wilton!’ Camden smiled as he strode towards her. ‘What must you think of me? My temper was justified, I assure you. But I would not have you think me a scold.’ He was a bear-like man with bushy brows and a hawk-like nose.

‘I apologise for interrupting at such a time. But Jasper just told me this morning about your calling at the house.’

‘Not at all. Come, let us withdraw from this clumsy pair and escape the sad perfume of spilled wine.’ He led her to a small room separated from the larger area with wood screens. The odour of the wine was not so strong here, but still the smell prevailed. Camden motioned for Lucie to sit on the one high-backed seat in the room. He settled on a bench, took a moment to calm himself, rubbing his forehead, pulling on his chin — an old habit from the days when he had had a beard. ‘It is my own fault, I fear. Impatient is what I am. My apprentices would have managed it without mishap. But I had to ask those two to shift the cask.’

‘Is it a great loss?’ Lucie asked.

‘Do you know, that is not the cause of my grief? It is the quality. A fine French wine I was saving for my Celia’s wedding. Dear Lord but I am an old fool.’

He was not so old and no fool at all, but Lucie understood how much more of a loss it was than merely the wine. A fond father who wished to make his eldest daughter’s wedding day perfect in a way he knew how. And the wedding was only a month hence.

‘There is no time to replace it?’

Camden pulled on his chin. ‘I shall get another fine French wine. In fact, I have others. But this one …’ He shook his head, then suddenly sat upright and slapped his thighs. ‘Enough of my moaning. You will be wanting to hear my thoughts about Alice Baker’s accusations.’ He dropped his eyes, regarding the floor for a moment. He was a heavy breather, being a man of great size.

Lucie listened to his measured breaths, wondering whether they were faster or slower than usual. She felt as if she were back in the convent, awaiting a punishment for some ill-conceived prank. ‘I believe I know what happened,’ she offered in much too small a voice.

Camden glanced up through his brows. ‘So do I. So does the rest of the city. Alice Baker thinks that if a pinch is enough to cure most folk, a shovelful is what she needs. She believes she is a delicate creature, beset by devils in every organ and joint. Oh, aye, I know Mistress Baker.’

‘That is possible, but the jaundice cannot be explained by one large dose of anything,’ said Lucie. ‘She mixed the wrong items.’ She told him Magda Digby’s theory and the remedy that she had recommended. ‘But I cannot stand over her and force her to obey me.’ She heard the defensiveness in her voice.

So did Camden, who motioned for her to calm down. ‘I accuse you of nothing. I merely wished to be apprised of the details so that I might know how to defend you if anyone does attempt to accuse you.’

‘No one has?’

‘There has been some gossip among members, but primarily those who live without the city and do not know Mistress Baker. And, of course, there has been much discussion of her colour.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘In truth, it is not such a bad hue.’

Lucie bit her lip, fearing a rush of tears. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am.’

‘I see it in your eyes, my friend. Come, let us go and have some refreshment with Gwen. I grow nauseated by the scent of that precious wine.’

On her way home, Lucie stopped in St Saviour Church. She knelt before the Blessed Mother, put her head in her hands and in the dim candlelight at last felt private enough to let the tears come. Tears of relief, mourning, fear and remorse — it did not matter. She felt purged when at last she rose and gathered the parcel of cakes for the children.