The Cross Legged Knight

Nine

Owen crossed the hall from Wykeham’s chamber. He saw through the windows that it was already mid-afternoon and cursed at how much of the day was gone and he no closer to understanding what had happened at the bishop’s house last night than he had been at dawn. That records had been stored in the undercroft might prove significant, but one fact seemed little reward for his efforts. Avoiding the kitchen, he stepped out on to the long porch connecting the two wings.

Wykeham stood opposite him just inside the doorway of the great hall, tapping a slow rhythm with long, slender fingers against the door frame. He was looking off to his side, speaking to someone within. Owen hesitated, thinking to retreat — but he was too slow.

Wykeham noticed him and regarded him with his hooded eyes. ‘Captain Archer, I would speak with you.’

Resigning himself, Owen joined the bishop and accompanied him into the great hall. The Fitzbaldrics were nowhere to be seen, although the archbishop’s servants were setting up a table for a meal at this odd mid-afternoon hour. It must be for the newly arrived guests. At least that would cut short his meeting with Wykeham.

Wykeham drew Owen aside to a bench beneath the high south windows. The brief autumn sunlight had given way to leaden clouds. If the storm had come last night, might Cisotta have stayed at home, out of danger? The memory of Cisotta’s corpse haunted Owen as he took a seat. His investigation had provided distance from her grisly image, as he had focused on others’ expressions, tones of voice, gestures that might reveal lies, things left unspoken. But now, in this quiet moment, the horror of the deed flooded back and rendered him mute.

‘Captain, are you unwell?’

Wykeham was leaning towards Owen, concern creasing his brow.

‘I had little sleep last night,’ Owen managed.

‘You lost all colour for a moment.’ Wykeham called to a servant to bring wine.

‘If it is for me, I would prefer ale.’

Wykeham nodded to the servant, who bowed and hurried off. ‘You must dine with the Fitzbaldrics.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘There will be plenty.’

The prospect of sitting at the table with those whom Owen must question dulled any hunger he might have had. ‘Thank you. But I mean to talk to as many people as possible while their memories are clear.’

‘Of course.’ Wykeham sat back, still watching Owen closely. ‘Just then, when you paled, of what were you thinking?’

‘Of Cisotta, what she suffered.’

Wykeham held his eye a little longer, then shifted his gaze to the window. ‘May God give her peace and may the Blessed Mother watch over her family.’ He crossed himself.

Owen did likewise.

‘I had not thought how painful this might be for you,’ said Wykeham, ‘that you might know the woman.’

‘A month past she was a frequent visitor in my house, nursing my wife through a difficult time — ’ Owen checked himself. The bishop did not care about the details of his life, nor did Owen truly wish to share them. He took the cup offered by a servant, paused for a long drink, closed his eyes as it went down.

‘It was a most horrible crime,’ Wykeham said in a quiet voice. He shifted in his seat, shook out a silken arm to drape the dropped sleeve smoothly, but said nothing else until Owen set his cup aside. ‘Fitzbaldric questioned some of Mistress Digby’s methods.’

‘Had she accompanied my old lord’s army in France, we would have lost far fewer men.’

‘That is where you lost the sight in your eye, I believe?’

Owen’s scarred eye prickled — he did not like the way Wykeham looked at him, as if weighing what he knew of him. ‘Normandy, My Lord Bishop.’ Where Owain Lawgoch is, is that what Wykeham is thinking behind that courteous mask?

Lawgoch, a mercenary fighting for the French king, sought to prove himself truly the heir of his great-uncle, Llywelyn the Last, by leading a Welsh rebellion against English rule. It was Owen’s brief flirtation with the rebellion while in Wales that he wished to hide from Thoresby.

Lucie’s hands felt strange, almost numb, as she pressed them to the pain above her groin and looked up and down the street, searching for the guards. Davygate had quieted in the heat of the afternoon, though many people had found tasks they could do while sitting in their open doorways, enjoying the warm weather while they worked. Neighbours shifted on their stools and glanced her way. Suddenly she felt an arm round her. Her heart skipped a beat even though the touch was too gentle to be Eudo’s.

‘Mistress, what is amiss?’ Kate asked. ‘Are you injured?’

‘Where are the children?’ Lucie hurried back towards the house.

Kate followed her. ‘In the hall. Why?’

Rushing inside, Lucie found Hugh sleeping on a mat, his fiery hair stirring in a gentle breeze from the garden window. Gwenllian sat beside him, resting her back against the wall, a slate on her lap.

‘Take them up to the solar, Kate. Where is my aunt?’

‘Tidying the kitchen. I pray you, Mistress, tell me what frights you so.’

‘Cisotta’s husband was in the shop looking for Poins. He is in a terrible rage. He started for the back of the shop. I think he means to come to the house.’

‘He will find only Dame Phillippa in the kitchen, Mistress. His Grace has already sent for Poins and Mistress Digby.’

And the guards had thought their duty done, damn them. Lucie shook her head as Kate began to explain. ‘There is no time. Take the little ones up. I shall send my aunt after you.’

Lucie found the kitchen door open. Within, Phillippa was raking up the soiled rushes. Unaware of Lucie’s presence, she eased herself down with difficulty, reached for a basket, dragging it towards her and began to scoop the pile of rushes into it.

Lucie crouched down to help her aunt, cursing herself for bringing this danger on her family. She tried to keep her voice level as she said, ‘This work is too dusty for you, Aunt, and the day much too warm for such exertion. The children have gone to the solar to nap. That is what you should do.’

Phillippa patted her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. ‘It is warm. How are Emma and her lovely boys?’

Lucie must get her out of the kitchen. ‘Where is your walking cane?’

‘Over there, by the table. It is of little use while I … Merciful Mother, you gave me a start!’

Eudo was in the doorway, his short, stocky mass blocking the light. He had lost his hat and his greasy hair stuck out in coarse tufts. His red eyes and slumped shoulders reminded Lucie of the grief from which rose his anger. ‘I mean your family no harm, Mistress Wilton. I want the man who murdered my wife.’

‘He is not here,’ Lucie said, fearing that he would hear the tremor in her voice if she said more.

Jasper appeared behind Eudo, hands outstretched. The tawyer sensed him and rushed towards Lucie. Desperate for anything that might stop him without injury, she took up the bucket of water sitting ready for Phillippa’s scrubbing and tossed it on him. As the tawyer sputtered and stumbled, Jasper grabbed his middle, pinning his arms to his sides. But anger and grief gave the man such strength that he broke away, knocking Lucie to one side, and disappeared through the door to the garden.

Jasper knelt to her.

‘I am not injured,’ she assured him. It was Eudo who needed comforting and her panic had merely fuelled his rage, making him more dangerous to himself. ‘Where did the guards take Magda and Poins, Aunt?’

‘To the archbishop’s palace.’

Thank heaven. There were surely guards at the palace. Even so, ‘Go, Jasper,’ she said. ‘Warn them!’

‘You are certain you are not injured?’

‘Yes. Go!’

He took off out of the door.

Lucie gathered herself up and, remembering the lamp burning in the workshop, gave Phillippa orders to lock all the doors and let no one in but Jasper or Owen. Her heart was still racing, but tears threatened as she returned to the shop.

‘The viciousness of this crime makes it all the more crucial to solve, Archer,’ said Wykeham. ‘Such a thing occurring in a bishop’s home …’ He sucked in his breath, sighed it out as if willing himself calm. ‘Were my men of help to you today?’

‘Aye, My Lord. As much as they could be. But they could not explain why you had set them the task of organizing and listing the records kept in the undercroft of your townhouse.’

Wykeham hesitated, as if considering his response. He lifted a foot, studied the soft leather boot. ‘We were coming north. It seemed an appropriate time to see to the matter.’

Owen grew impatient with Wykeham’s vague responses. ‘Did it have anything to do with the Pagnell ransom — or rather the part of the funds that went astray?’

Abruptly the bishop straightened, met his eye. ‘You know of that?’ He was not pleased.

‘Aye, My Lord. His Grace understood that if I was to guard you, I must know from what.’

A momentary silence followed while Wykeham sat with eyes closed, his lids twitching with thought. ‘I wished to have a clear record of what was stored in the house. And a few days ago I set them a further task of finding land of a certain value to offer Lady Pagnell. But His Grace the Archbishop could tell you of that — it was his desire that I do this.’

The servants whispered among themselves as they set the table. Faintly, Owen heard Thoresby’s and Michaelo’s voices in the garden.

‘Would you be willing to walk the undercroft with me when it is shored up, My Lord Bishop?’

‘I am flattered, but no. You must see — that this has happened in my house makes it likely an attempt to get to me. I should be a fool to walk into such danger.’

His sojourn as lord chancellor had taught him extreme caution.

‘If you are so concerned for your safety, would it not be prudent to distance yourself from the danger, to leave York?’

‘Prudent, yes. But first I must meet with Lady Pagnell and her son Stephen.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘You forget yourself, Captain.’ Wykeham emphasized the last word.

‘My Lord Bishop, you cannot insist that the fire was meant as a threat to you yet refuse to tell me why. One of York’s bailiffs has already challenged my involvement.’

Wykeham looked away, quiet for a few moments. With a sigh, he said at last, ‘I must convince the Pagnells that the circumstances in which Sir Ranulf died were beyond my control, that I was caught between the king’s will and theirs. I must make them see that I am most grieved by what happened.’

‘You have done what you could to appease them.’

‘It is more than that. I believe it is my enemies, those now close to the king, who have turned her against me. Lady Pagnell and her son Stephen have many Lancastrian friends. I intend to confront those who are ruining my name. But for that I need information.’

‘You believe the Pagnells will confide in you?’

‘I must try to reason with them.’

Wykeham glanced up with annoyance as Michaelo interrupted them, followed by Maeve, red-faced and wheezing.

‘My Lord Bishop, forgive me,’ said Michaelo.

‘Captain, you must come at once,’ Maeve cried. ‘Eudo the tawyer is in the kitchen saying he means to murder Poins.’

Owen was well past both Maeve and Michaelo before the bishop could say anything. Weapons drawn, the guards swept into the hall and disappeared down the kitchen corridor at Owen’s command.

‘Be alert for companions.’

If Eudo were somehow involved with the Lancastrians, he might have support. Belatedly Owen thought to warn the guards not to attack except to save a life. He cursed the gossips of the city for telling the widower where Poins had been taken.

A great shriek came from the kitchen, an unearthly sound that sent a shiver through Owen and propelled him towards it. His heart was pounding in his throat by the time he heard the voice of Magda Digby, now raised in anger, but coherent.

His men stepped aside for him. One of the large screens had fallen, exposing Poins’s area. Magda stood on a stool beside Poins’s pallet, pointing a dagger at Eudo, who stood stock still at the foot of the bed, his arms spread out as if he had intended to throw himself on to the injured man. He held his head stiffly, his eyes locked in Magda’s angry gaze.

‘He murdered my wife,’ Eudo said through clenched teeth, his jowls quivering. ‘Why should I spare him?’

‘What if thou art wrong?’

‘They found him with her.’ Eudo flicked a glance sideways as Jasper, panting, joined Owen in the doorway.

In the circumstances, Owen was not happy to see his adopted son. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came after Eudo. He’d been in the shop.’ Jasper took off his cap and mopped his brow. ‘Mistress Lucie sent me to warn you.’

‘Go away,’ Eudo shouted. ‘He is mine! Away, all of you!’

‘Stay back,’ Owen said in a quiet voice to Jasper, then stepped forward. ‘Be ready,’ he said under his breath to the three men standing by him, then nodded to the bishop’s pair who stood behind Eudo.

As Eudo turned to look on the bishop’s men, two of Owen’s lunged forward and grabbed the tawyer. He struggled in vain against the men as they bound his hands behind him.

Magda sheathed the knife. ‘Thy wife’s murderer will be found, thou shouldst have no doubt of that,’ she said. ‘Shame on thee. Thy children need thee and now thou art trussed like a game hen ready for the spit.’

Hearing the commotion in the kitchen, Thoresby opened the door of his parlour and listened long enough to catch the drift of the crisis, then commanded a passing servant to fetch his secretary. None of this had figured in his plans when he invited Wykeham to lodge at the palace while conducting his business in York. First the alienation of the Pagnells and Ferribys, then the falling tile, the fire, the murder, and now an attack in his very kitchen. Thoresby grew weary of the scandal that followed the bishop, weary of everything if truth be known. He was easing himself down into his cushioned chair when Brother Michaelo arrived, breathless and damp at the temples.

‘Sit down and calm yourself before you attempt to speak,’ Thoresby said. He settled back in his chair, fighting the instinct to steel himself for bad news.

Michaelo sank down in a backless chair, dabbed his temples with one of his scented cloths, cleared his throat.

‘Now. Tell me what damage the tawyer has done,’ said Thoresby.

‘I saw little of the event, Your Grace. You might have learned more had you not summoned me.’

‘Tell me what you do know.’

Michaelo described Maeve’s interruption in the great hall, her account of Eudo rushing into the kitchen. ‘When I arrived the man stood over Poins most menacingly, yet frozen by the Riverwoman’s shriek. She stood upon a chair, threatening the intruder with a dagger.’

‘It sounds as if the matter is under control.’

‘Let us pray, else the man is a demon in the guise of the tawyer. Do you wish to speak to him before he is taken away?’

Torment him with questions in his grieving? Thoresby began to decline, thinking it one of his secretary’s crueller ideas, but perhaps he should consider the matter. He knew that the city was abuzz with the rumour that the midwife had been murdered. It was not uncommon for a man to kill his wife, but to do so in Wykeham’s house and then call attention to himself with an attack in the palace kitchen seemed too ridiculous an idea to entertain. Yet the man had broken the peace in Thoresby’s palace, wanting vengeance, no doubt. He must be reprimanded, but also assured that Archer would find the guilty man and that Thoresby would punish him sufficiently.

‘Yes, bring him to my hall.’

‘What of the meal, Your Grace? The servants are setting up a table for your guests in the great hall. But with the state of the kitchen …’ Michaelo lifted his hands and shook his head.

‘Have a servant inform the Fitzbaldrics that Maeve will send for them when the meal is ready.’

Owen and Jasper slipped from the kitchen by the garden door. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a contrary breeze sent swarms of leaves swirling round them. The swift change in the weather chilled the sweat on Owen’s neck, yet the air felt heavy. They paused at the crossing of two paths, one leading round the palace and off to the minster and the city, one to the rear entrance to Thoresby’s hall.

‘Are you sure your mistress is not injured?’ Owen asked.

‘I cannot say for certain,’ said Jasper, ‘but her voice sounded strong.’

‘God be thanked.’ Owen trusted the lad’s powers of observation. ‘I am grateful to you for coming to warn me.’

Jasper shrugged. ‘I was too slow.’ He poked at a fallen bird’s nest with his toe. ‘Do you think anyone would miss this?’

The prisoner and his guards would soon be in the hall.

‘Take it and hurry home,’ said Owen.

Jasper crouched and scooped it up. ‘What will happen to Eudo?’ he asked as he straightened, his hands gently cupping the nest. ‘Is it a bad sign, being summoned by His Grace?’

‘In truth, I do not know. Now go. Your mistress will worry until she sees you.’

Jasper nodded to Owen and set off down the path for home, his long legs covering a good distance in no time. Owen turned and entered the hall.

Thoresby and Wykeham waited in seats arranged near the hearth. The darkening day brought a gloom to the hall even with the window shutters flung wide.

‘Light some lamps and close the shutters,’ Thoresby ordered the servant who was trying to blend into the corner shadows. ‘Have I lost all sense of time? Where is the sun?’

‘A storm is gathering,’ Owen said.

Wykeham sat a little back from Thoresby. In the sputtering lamplight Owen saw that the bishop’s face was set in a frown befitting a judge. ‘Was anyone injured?’ he asked.

‘No, My Lord,’ said Owen. ‘At least I hope that Eudo is unharmed.’

‘Why such concern?’

‘He has suffered enough, My Lord, and will continue to do so. It is the worst loss in a family, that of the mother.’

‘Are you condoning his behaviour?’

‘Not a whit. But if you punish him, you punish his children as well. My Lord,’ Owen added, not wishing to be responsible for offending the two powerful men who were about to rule on Eudo’s deed.

‘Here they are, Your Grace,’ Michaelo said quietly.

He stood aside to allow Wykeham’s guards to enter. They came forward with Eudo thrust before them. He hung his head and hunched his shoulders as if hoping to protect himself from curious eyes. But it was an open room with no place to hide.

‘Lift your head, Master Tawyer,’ Thoresby said. Unlike Wykeham, the archbishop seemed in a gentle mood. Perhaps it was just the lamplight softening the sharp lines of his bony face.

Eudo hesitated, then lifted his head, blinking in the lamplight. His coarse, jowl-heavy face was made pathetic by the anguish in its lines. ‘Your Grace.’ He tried to bow, but the guards held his upper arms and his hands were bound behind him, so he could do little more than rock slightly forward.

‘Unhand him,’ Thoresby said. To Eudo, who made as if to attempt a bow once more, he added, ‘No need. You are in mourning and sick at heart, I know.’

Wykeham leaned forward and whispered in Thoresby’s ear.

Thoresby nodded. ‘Was it your purpose to do violence in my kitchen?’ he asked Eudo. ‘Did you think to take the law into your own hands?’

‘He murdered my wife, Your Grace, orphaned my children.’

‘Hm.’ Thoresby seemed to be elsewhere for a moment. Then he said, ‘Let me remind me that your children are not orphaned while you yet breathe. And what makes you cry murder? Who has said your wife was slain by a hand other than God’s?’

The very question Owen wanted to ask.

‘The folk, Your Grace, I heard them in the streets. Why did she not run, they ask, and the answer is plain, I did not see it at first, but she must have been struck down before ever the fire began.’

‘Do you so think of anyone who dies in a fire?’ Wykeham asked.

Eudo glanced at Wykeham, over at Owen, back to Thoresby. ‘You are trying to confuse me.’

‘We are trying to reason with you,’ Thoresby said, ‘although reason may be wasted on a man who would launch such an attack on the strength of idle gossip. Are you often befooled in such wise, Master Tawyer?’

‘I — then is it not so, Your Grace?’

Owen did not like this. It was one thing to omit the detail of the strangulation, quite another to toy with Eudo’s wits.

He stepped forward. ‘What would you like us to do with this man, Your Grace?’ He expected to be sent out of the hall, which would suit him, for he did not know how much longer he could hold his tongue.

But Thoresby sat back so that he might see Owen’s face, held his gaze a moment, then inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’ He turned back to Eudo. ‘Let me assure you that we are examining all that we can learn of the events leading up to the fire, Master Tawyer, and if we find that it was other than an accident we will hunt down the culprit and judge him with the stern hand of the law.’

‘What do you care about my Cisotta?’ Eudo mumbled as his tears began anew.

‘We care, Master Tawyer,’ Thoresby said in a gentle voice. ‘Do not doubt that.’ He sat back, rubbed his eyes.

Eudo hung his head.

‘Untie him, men,’ Wykeham said quietly.

His retainers knelt to the purpose. Once his hands were free, Eudo made good use of both sleeves to mop his face.

‘Now,’ Thoresby suddenly said, ‘we have the matter of what to do with you.’ He waited until Eudo raised his head before he continued, ‘I propose that two of my men escort you home and take up a watch at your house, a watch that will be kept until such time as I judge your reason returned. In that time you shall see to your family, your work and your wife’s burial, but no more. My men will escort you on the morrow to St Sampson’s for the services. What do you say, My Lord Bishop?’ He twisted round to face Wykeham.

The scowl on Wykeham’s face spoke volumes. He was disappointed. ‘He must be given some penance, Your Grace.’

‘Penance. Yes. I leave that to you.’ Thoresby turned back to Eudo, who stood most humbly now, his eyes glistening, his great jaw trembling. ‘Do you deserve such trust?’

‘God help me, I will do so, Your Grace, My Lord Bishop.’ He bowed to each in turn.

That vow would stick in Eudo’s throat in a short while, when Owen began to ask more questions about Cisotta’s activities in the past few days, but for now it would get the tawyer home to his frightened children. Owen prayed Eudo did not take his frustration out on them. He bowed to Wykeham and Thoresby, then slipped away.

Two of his men stood waiting near the doorway to the garden, too damp from the rain to move farther into the hall. Owen had sent the pair to search the stone pile at the minster, thinking that four eyes might find more than his one.

‘All we found were these bits of rubbish,’ said one, handing Owen a sack. ‘Nothing of use. We’ll resume our search on the morrow, if it please you, Captain. We cannot do more in the storm.’

‘Aye. I’ll walk with you to the barracks.’ Settling his cap, Owen pulled his hood up over it and bent to the tempest. While he walked he invited his anger at the guards who had abandoned Lucie to heat to a boil.

In the retainers’ hall the fire circle lured him, as it had beckoned the pair he was after. It was plain from the looks on their faces when they recognized the newcomer that they had heard of the incident at Owen’s house. Making straight for them, Owen flung a stool aside that blocked his path to them and kicked over a flagon one had resting by his foot, letting the ale soak the young man’s leggings.

‘Who gave you permission to desert your posts, leaving my family unprotected?’

They interrupted each other trying to explain. Owen dragged one of them up by the collar and reached out to stop the other, who had begun to move sideways on the bench. ‘You will take the first watch at the tawyer’s house.’ In the storm, it would be good for them. ‘And you will not move from your posts until your replacements arrive for the night watch, is that clear?’ He let go of them. ‘You know the house in Patrick Pool? Good. I am going above to talk to Alfred. I do not want to see you here when I return.’

Being the top-ranking retainer living in the barracks, Alfred enjoyed the privacy of a solar room, though it was only partitioned off by flimsy wooden screens that did not keep out noise. As Owen had expected after Alfred’s watch through the night and into the morning, he was in bed, though sitting up, grinning at the treatment of the renegades. Up here right beneath the roof, the rain thundered.

‘They would have been looking forward to a good meal and dry beds.’ Alfred rubbed his face, bringing the blood back to the sallow surface, then raked a hand through his fair, thinning hair.

‘They will have their comforts in good time, but I want them miserable first. I need you to organize the watch list. We now have men here at the palace and at Eudo’s house.’

‘Aye, Captain. Did Eudo harm anyone in your household?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want another guard on your house?’

‘The men will get little rest if we spread them further. Word will soon be out that Poins is no longer at my house. I shall trust to God and the gossips.’

Alfred looked uncertain.

‘Eudo was looking for Poins and he found him.’ It was now late afternoon and Owen’s head grew heavy as he sat on the edge of Alfred’s bed. ‘I have more folk to see before I rest this day.’

Alfred’s gaze had strayed to the pouch in Owen’s hands. ‘What is that?’

‘Gleanings from the mound of tiles. They say they found nothing of worth, but I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘God go with you,’ said Alfred.

An odd thing for him to say. Owen wondered whether his lack of sleep was showing.

He departed from the barracks, walking out into the storm, which he was disappointed to see was passing, the rain gentler now. The guards’ punishment would not be as severe as he had wished. He must devise some further unpleasantness for the lazy pair. The earth smelled rich and loamy. Raising his eye to the great minster, he remembered scrambling on the pile of rubble. It seemed so long ago, and so unimportant now. But it was with that incident that Wykeham’s fear had taken root. Perhaps he should not ignore it.

He paused in the palace kitchen to enquire how Poins had weathered the intrusion. The screen had been righted and the injured man was asleep.

‘He understood that Eudo might have killed him,’ said Magda. ‘He stared after the men for a long while and would drink nothing for his pain. But in the end, he cried out for relief.’

‘He must fight hard to survive,’ Owen said. ‘Does he have the will?’

‘Thou knowest better than to pose Magda such a question. Only time will tell thee what Poins intends.’

‘You will spend the night here?’

‘Aye. A few nights, perhaps. Then Magda will teach the Fitzbaldrics’ cook to watch over him.’

Owen had settled on a bench and opened the pouch. Magda joined him. A button, a battered shoe, a crushed tin cup, a penknife.

‘Hast thou a use for these?’ Magda was amused.

Not so Owen. He lifted the penknife towards a lamp, studied the crest carved on the sheath. ‘For this, aye.’ He rose abruptly. ‘Perhaps I do not need Poins’s witness, now I have this.’

He passed out into the strange half-light of the sun setting beneath the clouds, heading for the masons’ lodge on the south side of the minster.