The Cross Legged Knight

Seventeen

What troubled Owen about May’s behaviour was that Adeline Fitzbaldric did not seem a woman to tolerate much clumsiness in a maid. But she had spoken as if it were a recent change. Which begged the question of what had brought on the change; whether it might be something for which May had consulted Cisotta. Or it was possible that May truly found the move to the city distressing. He remembered how their maid Tildy had feared leaving York for the first time, having never before gone past the city walls.

‘That maid is a danger to herself.’

Owen started. He had not noticed Wykeham approaching. Once more he wore a simple robe, but contrary to his recent behaviour he was smiling.

‘My Lord Bishop.’ Owen bowed to him and tried to push away his resentment of the man.

Wykeham’s smile had faded by the time Owen lifted his head.

The dark clothing accentuated the bishop’s greying temples and shadowed his doubling chin. ‘I shall need you and your men watching the palace more closely than usual tomorrow. Particularly from midday. Lady Pagnell is coming here to settle matters between us.’

This was a sudden shift. ‘She has agreed to meet?’

‘She has.’

‘I do not understand. What need have you of extra guards for such a meeting? What trouble do you expect?’

‘If the Lancastrians are behind all that has befallen me of late — the worst of it murder in my townhouse — and if they believe Lady Pagnell means to make peace with me, they may make a move tomorrow.’

The bishop’s fears became more convoluted by the day. ‘What would be their purpose?’

‘They mean to keep me from the king, to prevent my ever resuming the chancellorship.’ Wykeham’s voice was high with tension.

‘It seems a matter for diplomats, My Lord, not soldiers.’

Wykeham moved closer, his jaw thrust towards Owen, eyes wide with indignation. ‘Do you serve Lancaster or Lawgoch?’

For a moment Owen froze. ‘Neither, My Lord,’ he managed to say at last. ‘I serve His Grace and King Edward.’

‘Do you?’

‘Aye, My Lord. And you while you reside here. My men and I shall be ready for whatever befalls.’

Kneeling in the chapel, Thoresby thought about Sir Ranulf and prayed for guidance in how he might best bring peace to his household — or whether peace was the wrong state to wish for towards the end of one’s life. For several years before offering his services to the king, Sir Ranulf had been a shadow of himself, handing over to his son Stephen all business of the manor while suffering from a lethargy that weakened him in body and in soul. But as the preparations for his mission for the king had begun, the years had fallen away. During his last days in York, Ranulf had spoken in a freshly vibrant voice, his eyes had cleared and lit on everything with interest, his steps lengthened, his back straightened, his memory sharpened. Of Ranulf’s last days in France Thoresby knew nothing. He wondered what had gone wrong. A slip in his persona witnessed by someone already suspicious? Had his memory faltered? The latter is what Thoresby suspected, yet he had nothing on which to base that. Perhaps the youthful moment had been merely that, a passing moment, a teasing improvement before the end. He wondered what his own end would be like. He had done nothing of late that would suggest he had still some great achievement ahead of him, the crowning glory of his considerable career. He had not wielded a weapon since helping Archer against a murderer years ago. He had participated in no significant councils — indeed, had not even been invited to the council in Winchester to advise the new lord chancellor. It felt a paltry life, without purpose. Perhaps he should seek out a quest, as Ranulf had done.

He groaned at the thought. Aches in all his joints, difficulties with sleep, failing sight, a suspicion that he did not hear as well as he had only last year, all these were signs of a body that was incapable of derring-do. But that did not mean he could not produce something of worth. The lady chapel would be a fine monument to his archbishopric. And it was almost complete. Within the year he could move his predecessors to their new tombs and work on his own would begin. And then what? He must do more. He must move back into the realm of action, use his power for the good of mankind. Perhaps he should ride to Westminster, or wherever King Edward might be, and offer his service as Ranulf had done.

The thought exhausted him and he was easing himself up when Owen entered the chapel, knelt beside Thoresby, crossed himself, bowed his head. Thoresby settled back down on his knees, but his feet were beginning to tingle, which was a sign they would soon be numb. ‘When you have finished your prayer, come along to my parlour. I would speak with you, Archer.’ He rose and retreated to his high-backed chair to wait.

Owen did not keep him waiting long. Thoresby noted as his captain and steward joined him that he looked as if he had not slept in several days. He had never seen Owen so haggard. Together they walked in silence down the corridor to the screens passage.

‘You do not look well this morning, Archer,’ Thoresby said when they stepped into the daylight from the high windows in the hall.

‘Awaking to the bailiff’s accusations was unpleasant, Your Grace. I am worried about Lucie, and I have not yet broken my fast. I’ve no doubt I am not at my best.’

Thoresby clapped for a servant, who came in his own good time, damn him. He ordered food and ale brought to his parlour for Archer. ‘It appears I feed my servants too well,’ he said so that the servant might hear, ‘and they grow lazy.’

Owen said nothing.

In one corner of the hall the sun shone on Wykeham’s colourful chess pieces. ‘I see the Fitzbaldrics have abandoned their game,’ Thoresby noted as they passed it.

‘They have access to the bishop’s house.’

‘Ah. Yes.’

Owen resumed his silent walk through the great hall.

Thoresby followed. ‘I sat with the Fitzbaldric manservant for a while last night.’

That sparked an interest. Owen paused on the first step, his hawk eye on Thoresby. ‘You sat with Poins and the Riverwoman?’

‘Mistress Digby had been called away late in the afternoon. I took the opportunity. I have never seen such injuries outside of battle. The man is in great agony.’

‘Aye. What made you …’ Owen began, but cut himself off. ‘Did he speak to you?’

‘He asked for my blessing.’ Thoresby could see that Owen was surprised. ‘Guy and the Fitzbaldrics’ cook were also puzzled that he spoke to me. But when I asked him what he remembered of the fire he turned away from me.’

‘So he is concerned for his soul.’

‘Does that give you pause?’

‘No. With his injuries, it is fitting.’

There was an autumn chill in the air, a dampness that did not suit Thoresby’s joints. ‘Your food has doubtless preceded you to my parlour.’ He led the way across the porch. He hoped a meal would revive Owen.

A small table had been set beside one of the comfortable chairs, spread with cold meats, cheese, bread and fruit. A jug of ale and a cup sat to one side.

‘Maeve is in a generous mood,’ Owen said. ‘But I should not eat in front of you.’

‘I sent for it and you will eat it. While you do, we shall talk.’

Thoresby was glad when Owen took a seat, slipped his knife from its sheath and stabbed a piece of meat. Settling nearby, he poured himself a cup of equal parts hot water and wine.

‘You spoke of Guy,’ Owen said. ‘He was present at Poins’s bedside?’

Thoresby could see by Owen’s frown that this disturbed him.

‘He has offered to sit with Poins when neither the Riverwoman nor Bolton the cook is able to do so. I thought it strange, such a sullen man, to be so charitable. But Wykeham says he has a kind heart.’

‘I’ve seen no sign of it till now.’

That did not require a response. ‘The bailiff overstepped his duties. But I am concerned whether there is any connection between the thief’s murder and the midwife’s.’

‘Would that I knew, Your Grace.’

Thoresby wondered at the weariness in his captain’s voice but forgot that as Owen drew a pair of women’s gloves from his scrip. They were pretty things, or had been before being stained and stiffened.

‘Lucie was carrying these. She had found them hidden behind Cisotta’s potions. She believes it was no accident that the thief chose her.’

‘But the recovery of the gloves is surely a sign that neither the thief nor his murderer was after them.’

‘Lucie would argue with that.’

‘Why?’

Owen paused, elbow on the table, a piece of bread in his hand. ‘Much of what she says is against reason of late.’

Thoresby knew that Owen depended on his wife’s good sense. To have her lacking it must seem a great void. ‘Mistress Wilton has suffered much. Perhaps when she regains her health she will regain her wit also. Tell me what you know of the incident.’

Owen pushed away the food and leaned his elbows on the table as he related the events.

Thoresby listened with growing concern. ‘What is this city coming to, a man attacking a woman for a pair of gloves?’

‘The gloves were not visible.’ Owen raked a hand through his unruly hair. ‘I can make no sense of it.’

‘Are you certain that her only injury is the hand? Did she fall?’

‘And addle her pate?’

Owen’s eye grew so dark that Thoresby rose and went to his writing table. Atop other documents for his consideration was a note in Brother Michaelo’s hand saying that Wykeham wished to discuss arrangements for a meeting with Lady Pagnell to take place the next day.

‘So Lady Pagnell has relented,’ Thoresby murmured. Life might soon return to a calm rhythm, God willing.

‘Aye,’ said Owen. ‘The bishop wants a full guard on the palace tomorrow, in case Lady Pagnell alerts the Lancastrians of it.’

‘This feud he began in self-righteous anger will be his undoing.’

‘So fall great men,’ Owen agreed. Setting aside his cup, he prepared to rise.

But Thoresby was still disturbed by Owen’s mood. ‘I am fond of Mistress Wilton, as you know, and I ask this in that light. What is her condition, Archer? Is she pressing herself to work when she needs rest? Has she seen the best physicians?’

Owen studied him but said nothing for a while. Thoresby kept still, allowing the man to decide whether or not to confide in him.

It was Owen who shifted his gaze at last, casting his eye at some point just beyond Thoresby. Despite the food he looked more haggard than before. ‘If anyone can return my wife to her true self it will be Magda Digby, I think. I trust the Riverwoman with my life. But Lucie claims that work is her solace, that lying abed as Magda has ordered is agony for her. God knows what she is thinking, what she is suffering.’

‘Does she suffer in both flesh and spirit?’

‘Aye, Your Grace. But the spirit is the worst.’

‘Might it be good for Jehannes to see her?’ The Archdeacon of York was a close friend of the family.

‘She has sought him out as confessor and guide, Your Grace. He has comforted her, but nothing eases her for long.’

‘I am sorry Wykeham’s problems have drawn in your family, Archer. Let us pray that tomorrow’s meeting is satisfactory, and then we’ll be free of him.’

‘Amen.’

Lucie woke to a knock on her chamber door. Her mouth was woolly, her eyes swollen. She had cried herself to sleep, God’s curse on her at last crumbling all her reserves. Self-pity was ignoble, sinful, yet she preferred it to the self-hatred that had poisoned her days and nights of late. Now she woke with a new emotion — anger.

‘Come in,’ she called out, coughing at the effort.

Alisoun entered with a cup of Magda’s tonic. ‘You had a visitor, Mistress Wilton. The bailiff George Hempe.’ Lucie looked up sharply, saw the distaste in Alisoun’s expression. ‘He stayed only a moment, saying he did not wish to wake you. He begs your pardon for his unpleasant behaviour this morning.’

‘George Hempe said that?’

‘He did, Mistress.’

Lucie stared out of the window. The day had grown wanly fair but the breeze still held dampness. ‘How long have I slept?’

‘It is midday, Mistress.’

‘Are Gwenllian and Hugh behaving themselves?’

Alisoun’s colourless face lit up. ‘They are the best children I have ever minded, clever and cheerful. They are no trouble at all.’

Lucie smiled. They were good children. Heaven knew what they must think of their mother, always abed, always in bandages. She drank some of the tonic, then pushed back the covers.

Alisoun brought a bedpan from beneath the bed. ‘Do you need help with this?’

‘I do not need it. I am going out to the privy.’

Instead of backing away, as Lucie had expected, Alisoun shook her head. ‘Mistress Digby said you were to stay abed, that you are weak, and only rest and a good appetite will strengthen you.’

‘I shall have little appetite if I do not move about.’

‘May I look at your hand?’

As Lucie lifted it, a pain shot up her arm. She clenched her teeth. ‘Dear God.’

‘I’ll pack the wound with the Riverwoman’s paste that will cool it and draw out the bad humours.’

‘First help me with the chamber pot,’ Lucie said. ‘An injured hand does not make me a cripple. And when we are finished, bring the children up to play for a while.’

Alisoun’s hands were strong and her presence comforting.

‘Do you know the ingredients of the tonic Magda made for me?’ Lucie asked.

‘I do, Mistress.’

‘I would have you and Jasper remix it without the sleeping potion, which is valerian and something else — sleepwort? It is difficult to taste.’ The girl had paused in her ministration. ‘Did I guess correctly?’

‘Aye, Mistress. But the Riverwoman says it is important that you rest.’

‘Rest I will, when I have seen to my affairs. Will you give Jasper the instructions to make the tonic without the sleeping draught?’

Alisoun, tucking the rag bandages and ointment in a basket, hid her face from Lucie. ‘The Riverwoman is watching me for signs that I am not a healer born, Mistress. If I disobey her …’

‘Then it is best that I go without the tonic until I am ready for rest.’

From the set of the girl’s shoulders Lucie could see that she was annoying her.

‘That is not doing as the Riverwoman wishes, either,’ Alisoun groaned in the pure tones of a child weary of unpleasant responsibilities.

‘But I shall disobey, not you.’

‘What do you mean to do?’

‘When Magda tells you to do something, do you question her intentions?’

‘Aye, Mistress.’

‘And does she allow it?’

‘No, Mistress. I’ll bring the children to you now.’ Alisoun departed.

Bolton, the Fitzbaldrics’ cook, was a bald, well-fleshed man with scars that suggested he had experienced a much more adventurous life before becoming a domestic. He was sitting cross-legged on the rushes beside Poins’s pallet, singing a bawdy ballad when Owen entered the screened-off section of the kitchen. Poins lay with eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Bolton swallowed the end of a note and scrambled upright. ‘Captain,’ he said, bobbing his head.

‘I’ll relieve you for a little while. But first, have you ever seen these before?’ Owen drew the gloves out of his scrip.

Bolton bent close, making an odd sound in his throat. ‘I don’t like it when gloves dry like that, like claws ready to grab you.’ He crossed himself. ‘No, I’ve never seen such fancy gloves. Ladies are not commonly dressed so fine when they’re in the kitchen.’ He retreated to the screens.

‘I’ll stay long enough for you to go to the privy and have something to eat.’

‘Bless you, Captain.’

Poins had closed his eyes.

The kitchen had high ceilings, and a small window was open near the bed. Even so, the man’s burns smelled like rotting greens and made Owen’s recently filled stomach queasy. Thoresby had been kinder than Owen realized in sitting with the man last night. Poins’s face was partially visible now, the bandages only covering his right eye and upper cheek, the scalp over his left ear. His lips were still swollen and cracking. Owen found the ointment for them and smoothed some on.

‘Poins, do you remember me?’ he asked as he worked. ‘I’m Captain Archer. My wife and I took you in after the fire.’

Poins’s lips trembled, and a tension in his jaw suggested that he heard and held himself back from responding.

Before a battle the best commanders envisioned the thoughts of the enemy, trying to predict their movements. Owen sat back and thought about how he would feel if he had suffered the wounds and the burns Poins had, the loss of a limb. Magda said that some of his deepest burns were painless. Did that mean he was numb in those places? Owen thought that might be almost as frightening as pain. And there was the pain in the limb he no longer had, as well as the pain of his burns and the stench of his own decaying flesh. He wondered whether Poins was aware that he had moved from Owen’s house to the palace. And what he thought their purpose was in their attempts to question him about the fire. He must be frightened, confused, despairing, and perhaps angry that Magda had removed his arm without telling him what she was to do. It was no wonder Poins did not choose to talk. But he might be the key to that night. Owen must find a way to reach him.

He wondered whether Magda had told Poins anything about Cisotta’s death. Owen had not. Perhaps it was time to speak of it. Softly, so that his words carried no threat, Owen told Poins how he and Cisotta had been found, and that she had been murdered, but not how, watching all the time for signs that he understood. Again there were subtle changes in Poins’s face, and as Owen described Cisotta’s burns tremors ran down Poins’s ruined side.

‘We know nothing of what happened that night, how you both came to be in the undercroft,’ Owen continued. ‘Did you argue with her?’

No response.

‘Did you catch her stealing your master’s goods?’

One side of Poins’s mouth twitched.

‘Small hides, perhaps? Goatskin? Rabbit?’

Another shudder ran through Poins’s body and his throat began to work.

‘Is that it, Poins, you caught her, and in your surprise you dropped a lamp?’

Poins contorted his mouth and a sound came out, half groan, half sigh. ‘Not … my … lamp!’ he managed, his voice hoarse, his words barely coherent because of his swollen tongue.

‘What happened then?’

Poins moved his head back and forth weakly.

‘Did you kill her?’

Poins turned away, moaning as he tried to roll over on to his right side.

Owen slumped down on to a stool, head in hands. He must be patient though it drove him mad. When his heartbeat returned to normal, he straightened and watched Poins for a short while, but though the injured man breathed more quickly than he had before, he was motionless.

It seemed to have been Owen’s mention of the hide that had roused Poins, and that he had acknowledged that a lamp had set the fire, though someone else’s lamp. It would not be for nothing that Poins had broken his silence in Owen’s presence, not after all this time. He also seemed keen to deny his guilt. Yet his refusal to say more seemed a token of some measure of guilt.

‘I am sorry if I caused you distress, but you must see how important it is that I learn what happened that night. A murderer walks among us. He must be found before he kills again.’

Poins opened his eyes. ‘He struck me down.’

Owen dropped to his knees beside the pallet. ‘Someone was there? A man? Did you see him?’

Poins barely shook his head. The pain in his eyes made Owen want to believe him.

‘Why was Cisotta there?’

Poins shook his head and turned away.

‘I beg you, Poins, tell me.’

Silence.

Hoping for another chance, Owen sat with his attention focused on Poins until Bolton returned, but in all that time Poins did not move. It was even more maddening to Owen than before, knowing the man could speak, remembered the night and refused to tell him all he knew.

Gwenllian and Hugh had grown bored playing in Lucie’s bedchamber, begging Alisoun to take them out to the garden.

Lucie told herself it meant nothing, she should rejoice in their delight in play, their enjoyment of the garden, but she felt the rejection deep within. They were right to prefer the young, energetic Alisoun to her. Lucie’s hand throbbed, as did her head, and her balance was precarious when she stood. But worse than all that, the darkness was creeping back. She must busy herself.

She slipped out of bed and waited until the room stilled, then, with the mincing steps of the elderly, she made her way across the boards to the chest in which she had locked her scrip and the items Owen had brought from the fire. Unlocking it, she found the scrip, the knife she had wrapped in a rag, the belt used to murder Cisotta and her friend’s ruined girdle, but not the gloves. If Owen had taken them it must mean he thought them of some importance. Perhaps in finding them she had redeemed her mistakes of the previous day. She tucked the belt into her scrip, took her paternoster beads from a shelf and crossed back to the bed, annoyed by how weak her legs felt. Her pulse pounded in her head. The loss of blood could cause some of this weakness, but she suspected that most of it was the effect of the tonic, that Magda had meant it to enforce the rest she had ordained. But it was a half-hearted effort, for Magda would know Lucie might discover the cause of her exhaustion and set the tonic aside.

Sitting propped up against pillows, Lucie examined her scrip. Nothing but a greasy smudge suggested it had ever been out of her possession. Opening it, she passed her fingers over her initials and the apothecary rose, proud of such a fine piece, then dipped her hand within and retrieved her own ruined girdle. Uncurling it she saw that the fabric had been neatly sliced, the result of a sharp blade. With the items spread out on her lap for inspiration, she took up her beads and prayed for God’s guidance in helping Owen. By the end of the first round of prayers she still lacked inspiration. A second round was equally fruitless, though she felt steadier, more alert than before. She was setting the scrip and belt aside when Emma Ferriby appeared in the doorway.

‘Is that what I hope it is? Have you recovered your scrip and your mother’s gloves?’

Lucie wished she had not lied to Emma about the gloves, for surely she would slip with the truth. She distracted her friend by telling her of the bailiff’s visit and his later apology.

Emma had settled on the edge of the bed while Lucie talked, studying the items strewn on the covers. At the last part she glanced up. ‘George Hempe contrite? I wonder what Owen said or did to him?’ Her gaze wandered back to the items on the coverlet. Picking up the burned belt she studied the buckle, looked closely at the leather. ‘I could swear — but it cannot be.’

Lucie’s pulse quickened. ‘Do you recognize it?’

Emma traced the brass pattern with a stubby finger. ‘It looks very like one of a pair of straps Father used to hold rolled documents together. They were made of a fine cordovan leather that had been salvaged from a belt he had worn as a soldier.’

‘Who has them now?’

‘As Mother has handed over all business to Matthew, he has them. I thought he had used them to strap together the property documents from Wykeham.’

A fragment of memory teased Lucie, a table with a number of items, including a strap such as this might have been when whole. Tally sticks, too.

‘But I cannot recall when I last saw them,’ Emma said. ‘There was something wrapped round the rolls, I’m sure.’ There was an excitement in her voice, but her veil obscured her face as she bent over the belt fragment.

Now Lucie saw it, the table with John, Ivo and Edgar at one end, Matthew at the other.

‘I saw one of the straps the morning I came to your house with the sleep draught.’ Lucie remembered Matthew rising from the table, gathering his work, securing the rolls. ‘He used only one strap that day.’

As Emma lifted her head she was almost smiling. ‘Are you thinking he might have been in the burning house? With documents?’

‘Or he had left documents there and someone else used the strap. We do not know where he was that night.’

Emma lifted the strap higher, tugged it taut. ‘Used this? What do you mean?’

Lucie had forgotten that Emma did not know how Cisotta had died. It was difficult to keep track of what people knew, what must be kept secret, who might be after what she knew and to what ends.

Her silence led Emma to demand, ‘What are you hiding from me?’

Lucie needed Emma’s insights, her information. It was too late to back away from her now. Already one lie stood between them. Lucie would not tell another. ‘Owen found it round Cisotta’s neck.’

At first Emma did not seem to understand. Then she dropped the strap on the bed, raised her hands to her neck. ‘She was strangled?’

Lucie nodded.

‘Dear God.’ Emma stared at her upturned palms. ‘I thought him evil, but not so evil as to murder.’

‘I cannot make sense of it,’ Lucie said.

Emma had dropped her hands to her lap and sat contemplating them in a silence that troubled Lucie. It was so quiet she could hear Gwenllian’s laughter in the garden, Kate speaking loudly so that Phillippa could hear her over the splashing water in the laundry tub.

‘How long have you known how Cisotta was murdered?’ Emma asked in a voice that echoed the tension of her former silence. Her eyes accused Lucie.

‘I have known all along. It is a secret, Emma. I pray you, tell no one of this.’

‘Is that why you kept it from me this long?’

‘Of course it is. What need had you to know? I have only this moment learned that the strap might belong to your household.’

‘My mother’s household.’ Emma slipped from the bed, moved to the window, where she looked without, her back to Lucie. ‘Or do you fear that the rumours are true, that my family had a hand in the fire?’ She did not move, did not turn to regard Lucie.

‘I have never thought your family to blame. I told you, no one knows how Cisotta died. Emma, please, you must believe me.’

Emma did not respond.

Lucie slipped the strap and the beads into her scrip, pushed back the covers and rose, using the bedpost to steady herself. Her balance felt better than before, but the floorboards were cold. ‘It is time to hang the bed curtains,’ she murmured to herself, dispelling the uncomfortable silence.

‘You should keep them up throughout the year,’ Emma said, glancing at the plain rails connecting the posts. ‘Drafts in summer are as dangerous as those in winter.’ She noticed where Lucie was. ‘Standing there in bare feet and just a shift is doubly foolish.’

‘I should be grateful for less criticism and your help in dressing.’ Lucie lifted her bandaged hand. ‘This makes the simplest task difficult.’

Emma gently took the bandaged hand. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, avoiding Lucie’s eyes. Her voice was strained.

‘Yes. But it matters not whether I lie abed or sit in the garden, and I am not as fond of this chamber as I once was. I’ve spent too much time in it of late. I should enjoy some air.’

‘Why did you have all those things on the bed?’

Lucie heard concern in Emma’s tone. ‘I thought to learn something from them. I prayed for guidance in how to assist Owen — and God answered me with your identifying the strap. Now I feel impatient to tell Owen, but he may be out all the day. I must do something. I cannot sit here any longer.’

Emma had already taken the gown Lucie had worn in the morning from a hook on the wall and collected her shoes and linen-lined hose.

‘Those are too warm,’ Lucie protested.

‘You have lost much blood and your humours are ill-balanced. Warmth is important at such a time. I shall instruct Kate to spice your food.’ Emma still seemed stiff in demeanour.

Lucie did not wish to argue about her humours at the moment. ‘Owen must talk to Matthew, find out the truth.’

Emma lifted the gown and helped Lucie pull it down, then began on the buttons. ‘If he murdered Cisotta and has been clever enough to hide his guilt so far, he is not likely to confess.’

‘Where does Matthew sleep?’

‘With Edgar, the boys’ tutor.’

‘I would speak with Edgar.’

Emma sighed and held out a sleeve for Lucie’s arm, then fumbled with the laces at the shoulders.

Lucie tried not to complain about Emma’s jerky movements.

‘Owen will not be pleased if you go abroad in the city,’ Emma said.

Nor was Lucie ready today. ‘Then would you speak with Edgar, ask him whether he has noticed anything in Matthew’s behaviour, whether he knows where Matthew was the night of the fire, or at least whether he was out, when he came in?’

Emma pulled over a low stool and sat on it, wrapping her arms round herself. ‘My stomach aches to think of going home. How can I look upon Matthew?’

‘Remember that we have no proof that he is guilty. Faith, we do not even know whether he knew Cisotta.’

‘That is so. I cannot imagine how he would have made her acquaintance.’

‘Men have a way of finding beautiful women.’

Emma shook her head. ‘He is chasing wealthier and more powerful prey.’

‘Cisotta might have been a past conquest. Or merely a dalliance, a distraction. But at the moment we know nothing to accuse him of.’

The two women looked at each other, their faces sober.

‘Except that she was strangled with a strap very like those in our house,’ Emma said slowly.

‘Speak with Edgar.’

Emma slipped one of the hose up Lucie’s leg and helped her fasten it, then the other. They were warm on Lucie’s chilled feet.

‘Mother is meeting with Wykeham on the morrow,’ Emma said as she picked up Lucie’s shoes. ‘Have you heard?’

‘No. How did he convince her? Was it the boys’ accident?’

‘He sent a messenger asking to meet at our house with John and Ivo in the morning. Mother took it as a sign of trouble, though I thought the bishop took care with his words to sound reassuring.’

‘Has she invited him to the house?’

‘No. She proposed to meet at the palace.’

‘But that is perfect! At what time do they meet?’

Puzzled, Emma said, ‘Just after midday.’

‘I shall come to your home in early afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘To search Matthew’s belongings.’

‘Oh — but surely Magda wants you to rest.’

‘I cannot rest until we have found Cisotta’s murderer.’

‘Lucie.’

‘I have been lying in that bed day after day, night after night, thinking of the child I lost, worrying about God’s purpose, whether he means to take more from me. When I am not fearing for my children I am mourning the friend who nursed me. I cannot bear it, Emma. I must have occupation.’

She could see in Emma’s eyes that she had touched a chord.