The Cross Legged Knight

Two

Smoke already masked the October smells when Owen stepped out into St Helen’s Square. Shouts drifted down from the scene. Owen looked up, expecting to see the glow of fire in the sky above Petergate. But the sky was a deep blue, the stars silvery white. Perhaps God was with them and the fire had been caught early. People ran past him. By the time Owen reached the top of Stonegate several chains of folk stretched along Petergate passing buckets of water from the nearest wells. A boy clutching an empty bucket emerged from the smoke near the burning house and headed down one of the lines. Another followed close behind.

Owen stopped him. ‘Where is the fire? I see no flames.’

‘The fire is down below, in the undercroft, Captain. They pulled out a servant — his clothes ablaze. They doused him with water and rolled him in the dirt. The other is dead, they say. A maidservant.’

Owen let him go, hurried on. The street was already slippery with spilled water. As he moved closer, the vision in his one good eye blurred with the smoke that belched from the undercroft doorway. The walls of the undercroft were stone and the roof tile, but the support posts and the storey above were of timber. Near the door stood Godwin Fitzbaldric, the bishop’s new tenant, here in York only a few months. He was calling out orders, hurrying the bucket wielders along. His face was streaked with soot, his shirt torn. He was a tall man, leaning towards fleshiness, almost bald but for a dusting of dull red hair running from temple to temple across the back of his head.

‘Is everyone out of the house?’ Owen asked him.

Fitzbaldric drew an arm across his broad brow. His wide sleeve was heavy with water and torn, the tight sleeve of the shift beneath soiled. ‘They pulled two of my servants from the undercroft. They were alone in the house.’

‘You were not at home when it began?’

‘No. We dined at a neighbour’s.’

‘Did you ask the injured servant whether any others were in the house?’

‘He is past speaking.’

‘Not dead?’

‘Not yet, but how he can survive with such burns — ’

‘Has anyone searched the upper storey?’

Fitzbaldric shook his head. ‘They were …’

Owen did not wait to hear the man’s repeated assurance. Anyone in a crowded city knew to search a house on fire. Servants had friends, neighbours might be visiting. Having moved from a village near Hull a few months ago, perhaps Fitzbaldric did not understand that — fires were a regular occurrence here. Owen pushed past the human chain passing buckets, dipping the cloth he carried into one of the pails of water. Tying the wet cloth over his nose and mouth, he mounted the stairs, which were shielded so far from the flames by the stone wall of the undercroft, pushed open the door and shouted, ‘Is anyone here?’ Stepping within, he found the crackle of fire and the shouts of the people muted. His voice echoed loud in the hall as he called again. Smoke seeped up through the floorboards, a flame licked over in the front corner. Two lamps were alight on the trestle table, and a lantern on a wall sconce. Already their flames were blurred behind the smoke in the air.

Something clattered up in the solar at the far end of the hall. As he rushed towards the steps his eye watered from the smoke coming up from below. ‘Come down! The undercroft is ablaze!’

A foot appeared on the steps, then a second. So much for Fitzbaldric’s stubborn certainty. It was a woman, her skirts hitched up to descend. She moved slowly, looking about her as if confused. Her cap was askew, her dark hair tumbling down her back.

‘Poins?’ The woman’s voice trembled.

‘Hurry. This is too much smoke for anyone to breathe.’

Seeming only now to focus on him, she crouched down on the steps and reached towards his outstretched arms as if she thought to take his hand, but she was now so unbalanced that she lost her footing and slipped down the last few steps, landing in Owen’s arms. She had fainted.

He pulled her away from the steps, crouched, lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder as he rose. His back would wreak vengeance for that on the morrow. Pray God he lived to suffer it. He blinked against the smoke, took a step forward, checked himself. The smoke was obscuring his vision. He cursed the Frenchwoman who had cost him the sight in his left eye. Trying to establish the angle at which he had approached the steps to the solar, he prayed he was headed in the right direction. The cloth over his mouth and nose had dried in the heat. The smoke burned deep in his chest. He felt from the vibration of the floorboards someone striding towards him.

Alfred, his second in command, materialized. ‘This way, Captain.’

Out on the porch Owen crouched down and slid the woman from his shoulder. He did not trust himself to bear his own weight and hers down the stairs, not with his lungs on fire. He ripped the cloth from his face and gasped the cool air.

Alfred took up the woman. ‘Mistress Wilton awaits you below, Captain. She has been passing round a syrup for our raw throats.’

Fitzbaldric met them halfway up the steps. He lifted the woman’s head. ‘But this is May, my maidservant. I thought … What was she doing up there?’

Owen wiped his face. ‘Sleeping, from the look of her. Turn round, the steps will catch any time.’ Alfred had already continued down, keeping well to the outside edge. Nearer the house, the steps were catching sparks from the upper storey.

Fitzbaldric turned, shouted, ‘Wet the steps!’

One of the human chains shifted direction.

Lucie awaited Owen on the ground, standing still in the roiling sea of people, too close to the fire for his liking. When he reached her, she embraced him, hugging him tightly, then stepped back, plucked off his cap, ran her fingers through his hair, took up his hands and examined them. ‘Thank God you are unharmed.’

‘I did nothing foolhardy.’ He gladly accepted the flask she offered. ‘Did you see where Godwin Fitzbaldric headed?’

‘Across the way. Come.’ Lucie guided him through the crowd passing buckets, shouting, away from the house, the smoke, the sound of cracking timbers.

The Fitzbaldrics stood beneath the overhang across the way, watching Alfred. With the maid in his arms, he was following Robert Dale and his wife Julia to their house at the corner of Stonegate and Petergate.

Lucie had paused in a pool of torchlight set in the wall of one of the houses opposite the bishop’s, far enough from the Fitzbaldrics that they would not be able to hear her. ‘The Dales hosted a banquet to introduce the Fitzbaldrics to some of their acquaintances this evening,’ she said. ‘Now they have offered the couple a bed for as long as they need, as well as the maid and cook.’

‘You have spoken to them?’

‘A little.’

‘What of the injured manservant?’

Lucie did not answer at once. She watched not Owen but the mass of people working on the fire.

Owen touched her arm. ‘Lucie?’ He had come to dread her silences.

She pressed his hand, a gesture she had made seldom of late. ‘They might yet save the upper floors. Listen. It is quieter now.’

It was difficult for him to block out the sound of the people, but gradually he was able to hear what she did — the fire hissed rather than roared. Yet he remembered the burning corner in the hall. ‘I do not think we can hope for that.’

Still facing the burning house, she said, ‘I told them to take the manservant to our home.’

He had forgotten his question and did not at first grasp what she was saying.

Lucie turned to him. ‘Owen?’

Her meaning dawned on him. ‘We cannot care for him. You are yet weak — ’

‘It is done. He is on his way and Magda Digby with him.’

In the torchlight Owen could see the set of Lucie’s jaw, the challenge in her eyes, and against all reason he was glad of it, for he had not seen that spirit in her for a month. ‘So be it.’

She pressed his arm. ‘Come home?’

‘Not yet. I want to see the dead woman.’ He shook his head at her. ‘Why would you do this? You do not know these people.’

‘Why did you go in search of the maid?’

The Fitzbaldrics were looking their way. It was not the time for an argument.

‘We have been noted,’ Owen said. ‘I would talk to them. Your flask is empty now.’ He handed it back to her. ‘Go home. I’ll follow when I can.’

‘We are most grateful to you, Captain,’ said Fitzbaldric as they drew near. ‘God help me, but I was certain the house was empty.’ He did not look Owen in the eye.

‘We could not know she was up there,’ said his wife.

Owen was not interested in their excuses. ‘Have you seen the woman found in the undercroft?’

‘I did,’ said Fitzbaldric, ‘when they carried her out.’

‘You had identified her as your maid. Does she look like her?’

‘Have you seen the body, Captain? I could tell little else than that it was a woman. I assumed it was May.’

‘And you?’ Owen asked of Mistress Fitzbaldric.

‘I saw no cause to upset Adeline,’ Fitzbaldric said.

Owen ignored him, wanting his wife to answer for herself. ‘You cannot account for her?’

Adeline Fitzbaldric shook her head. ‘Our cook assisted at the Dales’ dinner. But May and Poins stayed at home. I do not allow my servants to entertain while they are in charge of the house.’

A crash drew all eyes back to the fire across the way. Flames shot from the doorway at the top of the steps.

‘We are ruined,’ moaned Adeline Fitzbaldric. ‘All the goods you had stored in the undercroft lost.’

Fitzbaldric put an arm round her. ‘We have the warehouse in Hull, Adeline. And the support of the guild.’

Thinking the couple caught up in one another, Owen began to cross over to find where the corpse lay. But he discovered Fitzbaldric hurrying after him.

The merchant stopped him in the middle of the street. ‘Is it true you are seeing to Poins?’

‘My wife so ruled.’

‘God bless you and all your household, Captain. He was in terrible pain.’

And might not live to tell the tale, or face punishment.

‘Who is that woman, Captain? We had no other women in the house.’

‘I have yet to see her. Where have they taken her?’

‘The neighbour’s shed, on the far side of the house. They put her there awaiting the coroner.’

‘See to your throat, your wounds, Master Fitzbaldric. You have been through much this night.’

As Thoresby sat over wine with Wykeham, listening to his complaints, his fears, the seriousness of the rift between Wykeham and Lancaster became clear to him. On the surface, Lancaster and Wykeham were alike in their lack of those pleasing graces that bind people to great men out of love, though where Lancaster was flint-eyed and cold, Wykeham was pinch-lipped and stubborn. The dangerous difference — dangerous to the bishop and all who crossed the duke — was Lancaster’s passionate nature. And in alienating Lancaster by the rumours of his lowly birth — or the failure to contradict the rumours in a sufficiently public arena — and then giving voice to the criticism of the duke’s ability as a general, Wykeham had insulted the man to the very heart. Which put much weight behind Wykeham’s fears.

Thoresby was considering how to express his thoughts diplomatically when he was distracted by voices from the hall entrance. What had been a murmur grew louder.

Wykeham shifted in his chair, glancing towards the carved screen that shielded them from the doorway.

From behind it came Brother Michaelo, his elegant face flushed, his bow and apology curt. ‘There is terrible news. The bishop’s house in Petergate is ablaze. A woman is dead, a man badly injured.’

‘God rest their souls,’ Thoresby said as he crossed himself.

Wykeham did the same, then demanded, ‘Who? The Fitzbaldrics?’

His clerk Alain hastened in after Michaelo. His pale hair clung damply to his head, his gown was spotted with water, his shoes created puddles. ‘Their servants,’ said Alain.

‘You were there?’

‘I was eating in a tavern when news of the fire drew all my fellows out to help — I followed, helping pass buckets until enough folk had arrived that I could slip away. I thought you should hear.’

Wykeham groaned. ‘God save us.’ He moved towards the screen passage, checked himself, raised a hand to his brow. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked Alain. ‘Is the house lost?’

‘Most of the house is gone. It began in the undercroft,’ said Alain.

‘What devil has been loosed against me?’ said Wykeham in a choked whisper.

‘Fires are common in a city such as York,’ Thoresby said, but Wykeham was not listening.

‘You said the undercroft — did it begin in the records room?’ Wykeham asked his clerk.

‘I do not know, My Lord Bishop.’

‘You had documents stored in the undercroft?’ Thoresby asked, belatedly understanding the implications of Wykeham’s questions.

‘Yes. Property records, accounts.’

‘Can anything be saved?’ Wykeham asked Alain.

‘If so it will be thanks to the folk of this city. They streamed from their houses with pots and buckets in hand, shouting directions to the nearest wells.’

‘They are saving their own properties,’ Thoresby noted.

‘Were any others injured?’ Wykeham asked his clerk.

‘I heard of no others. My Lord, I fear for your safety in York.’

Wykeham turned to Thoresby. ‘Captain Archer — he has investigated such things for you before.’

Seeing the fear in the eyes of the bishop and his clerk, Thoresby did not argue. ‘Michaelo, send for Archer.’

‘According to Alain the captain is at the fire, Your Grace.’

‘He rescued a maidservant from the solar,’ Alain said. ‘He is a courageous man.’

‘We have no need for heroics, just answers,’ Thoresby snapped. ‘Send for him.’

Crossing back towards the fire, Owen found Alfred. As they searched for a lantern and then headed for the shed, Owen asked what Alfred knew of the woman taken from the burning undercroft.

‘She was lying on her stomach just beyond the outstretched hand of the manservant.’

‘What else?’

‘If she had been lying any farther inside, they would not have seen her. Though that matters little to her.’

‘Someone will miss her, Alfred. At least they will know what happened. Has the coroner been here?’

‘He is helping with the fire. I do not think he has viewed the corpse.’

Owen could not fault him. The fire threatened the city. The unfortunate victim could wait. ‘What of a priest?’

‘Father Linus from St Michael-le-Belfrey gave her the last rites, in case her soul had not yet departed.’ Alfred nodded towards a man who had stepped away from the chain of water carriers and was drinking from a tankard being passed along. ‘One of the rescuers. Folk are making much of the two men who threw water over each other and went in to bring her out.’

‘They deserve the praise,’ said Owen, ‘to walk through fire for a woman they do not know.’

‘Who can say whether they know her? She is charred far worse than the man, as if she had lain in the heart of the fire. But the earth floor protected her face, and the front of her body.’

‘Then someone should be able to name her.’

‘She is not a pretty sight, Captain. Her face swelled in the heat and her hair is burned away. Her body is several times its size like someone pulled from the flood.’

They stood now before the shed.

‘Do you need me in there?’ Alfred asked in a voice that made it plain he prayed Owen would not.

‘Stay without, let no one disturb me.’

‘Gladly.’

The air in the shed was heavy with the odour of burned flesh. Owen left the door slightly ajar. The body had been laid out on a wattle panel, face up. Owen crouched down and slowly moved the lantern the length of the body. Alfred had been right, she was a piteous sight, half her face blackened, misshapen, the unburned side bloated, distorting her features. Her torso was swollen, and charred but for a hand’s span down the length of it, where it had been protected by the earth floor. Owen shuttered the lantern and stepped outside for air.

Alfred was talking to one of his fellow palace guards.

‘I thought you were on duty at the palace,’ Owen said.

‘I am, Captain, but His Grace the Archbishop sent me to fetch you. He wants to hear what you have observed here.’

Brandywine, fragrant air free of smoke, far away from the stench of burned flesh — Owen minded the summons far less than was his habit. The prospect provided the spur he needed to return to the corpse within the shed, a respite at the end of the dread task of examining her. But he should also have a look at Poins. ‘Tell His Grace that I shall come soon, after I have been home to see how the injured servant is faring.’

The guard shook his head. ‘His Grace said he would accept no excuses, no delays.’

So Thoresby would get half the story. ‘Why is he so insistent, I wonder?’

‘He has asked for extra guards on the palace, also.’

Thoresby must believe the fire was a threat to Wykeham.

‘I shall follow soon.’

‘But …’

‘If I do not examine the corpse, I shall have little to tell His Grace.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Owen withdrew to the shed and once again shone the lantern along the length of the woman’s body. He saw no remnants of a veil or cap, which might have protected some of her hair. One side of her head was caked with mud where it had been pressed to the earth. He found a length of sacking hanging on a hook on the wall of the shack and used it to wipe away some of the grime. He could see that her eyebrow was a light brown, a shade too common to set her apart. He tried to imagine her skin slack, her features more defined, but it was beyond his powers to do so. She was someone’s daughter, perhaps wife and mother. Someone would come forward to claim her. He thanked God he knew that all the women in his family had been safe when the fire began.

Something around the woman’s neck caught the lantern light, but her flesh had swelled around it. A piece of jewellery, perhaps. That might be useful in identifying her if the Fitzbaldrics did not come up with a name. Owen tilted her chin back gently. With the sacking protecting his hand, he reached for the item. It was polished metal, large for a lady’s neck, almost four fingers long, cutting into the swollen flesh above and below. A leather strap hung from it, the end so charred it crumbled in his fingers. He realized it was a buckle and a belt, or strap. The rest of the belt was deeply imbedded in the swollen flesh of her neck, secured by the brass buckle. Easing the leather through the buckle, he worked it out, trying not to tear the flesh. He was sweating and nauseated by the time he held the charred belt in his hands. The buckle had been positioned over her throat and had probably crushed it.

Owen’s discovery changed the temper of his examination. The woman was no accidental victim, a neighbour coming to talk with Poins while he fetched something from the undercroft, caught in a sudden blaze caused by an overturned candle. She had been murdered, her executioner, no doubt, hoping the fire would mask the deed, not counting on the quick response of the neighbours.

But they had not come in time to save her. May she rest in the light of Thy grace, dear Lord.

Gently Owen arranged the woman’s head so that the band of unburned flesh at the side of her neck, where the leather had protected it, was not noticeable. Whoever wrapped her in a shroud for burial might make note of it, but there were other abrasions and raw areas on her flesh where fragments of charred, brittle clothing had been pulled away, perhaps when she was moved. He hoped that only the murderer would know how she had died. With care, Owen coiled what was left of the belt around the buckle, wrapped it in the cloth, and tucked it into his scrip. He would show it to Thoresby and Wykeham, but no one here, not even the coroner — his job was but to record that she had died and how. For now he would be satisfied with death by burning.

Owen shuttered the lantern and stepped out of the shed. Alfred awaited him.

‘Get me some water to wash my hands. Then I want to talk to the men who carried her out.’

Owen leaned back against the wall while he waited, hands hanging at his sides, eye closed, breathing. Even the smoky air was better than the air in the shed.

Alfred returned with the man he had pointed out earlier. Owen recognized him as a blacksmith’s apprentice — someone unafraid of fire. He had little to add to what Owen had already heard.

Another man came forward, holding out a leather strap decorated with glass beads. ‘This dropped from the woman, I think,’ he said, placing it in Owen’s hand.

It was a pretty bauble, or had been before the fire had ruined it, perhaps the woman’s girdle. Owen added it to the other piece of leather in his scrip. It was something by which she might be identified.

‘Tell me about the other, the injured man.’

‘He lay beneath a burning barrel. His arm broken.’

‘Why did he not free himself?’

‘His head was bleeding. Perhaps he was in a faint.’

‘The barrel was atop him?’

‘Aye.’

Owen drew Alfred away from the others. ‘I want a guard on my house, where the injured man lies.’

‘Protecting a witness?’

‘Aye.’ Or the murderer. ‘And my family.’

‘Colin is in this crowd. I shall find him and take him with me.’

‘Good man.’