The Guilt of Innocents

Nine

A quiet afternoon in the shop allowed Lucie time to send Edric into the workshop to prepare more calendula and aloe salve for dry skin and various other cold weather balms that would go quickly now that snow had arrived. She settled on a long bench with Jasper’s cat Crowder who looked as if he had been neglected of late. As she combed his ginger and white fur his purr grew louder, just the sort of cheery sound her spirit needed. Lucie had been sad when Magda departed midday, and as the afternoon wore on her gloomy mood had turned darker with fears of losing the child she carried or giving birth to a sickly, mewling baby over whom she would fuss and fret through its brief life. It was as if she feared that Magda’s departure had deprived her of grace.

She was startled when Crowder suddenly nipped the hand in which she held the comb, his characteristic signal that he’d had quite enough fussing. He jumped down, shook himself, fluffed his groomed fur, then trotted off into the workshop. Lucie was still smiling and shaking her head at the enormous dignity of cats when a woman entered the shop. Lucie guessed by the ashen colour of her complexion that the woman sought a physick for herself. She was not well-to-do, but proud — though her clothes were drab and patched, the patches were delicately sewn and her wimple was starched.

‘What might I do for you this windy day?’ Lucie asked.

‘I need something to ease my heartache and my fear so that I might sleep. My children need me.’ The woman’s voice shook and she seemed near tears.

Moved by the woman’s apparent suffering, Lucie put her arm around her. The woman allowed herself to be led to the long bench, tears falling.

Lucie settled beside her. ‘For such things it is helpful if you tell me more about this difficulty. You said “heartache”. You have no injury or illness of the body?’

‘No. My Drogo was murdered. Our house was searched. I am so frightened I cannot properly mourn my husband.’

Drogo’s widow. This was not some chance encounter. Lucie took the woman’s cold hands and pressed them between her overheated palms. ‘Now I understand your pain and fear. May God watch over you and your daughters.’

‘Are you Dame Lucie Wilton?’

‘Yes. I don’t know your name.’

‘My name is Cecilia, but Drogo called me “Cissy”.’ She had regained her composure. ‘I know that your husband is searching for my husband’s murderer, and I am grateful. I pray he finds him, and quickly.’ Her eyes moved in jerks and her hands had still not warmed. ‘God bless and keep you and your family, Dame Lucie.’

‘And may he bless and keep you and yours, Dame Cissy.’ Already considering what might be best for the woman, Lucie asked, ‘Are you able to sleep at all?’

Withdrawing her hands, Cissy wiped her tear-streaked cheeks. ‘Since Drogo died I cannot stay asleep for the slightest noise wakes me. Then the devil starts whispering of all the evil that might be brought down on my little family. I have no husband, we have no protector.’

‘Much of your fear will pass when you know that his murderer is found,’ said Lucie. ‘For the nonce you can drink something before sleep that will calm you. How are your daughters?’

Cissy gave a little shrug. ‘They are young and, God forgive me for saying this, but Drogo paid them little heed when he was at home and he frightened them with his temper. Already they forget that we are in mourning.’

‘Perhaps that is best for them,’ said Lucie.

Cissy nodded and tried to smile. ‘They are good girls. I am blessed.’

She was missing a few teeth among what seemed healthy ones, and there were scars on her face, around her nose and mouth, that Lucie guessed were from beatings.

‘I don’t know why, but the loss of his mother’s ring made me cry more than his murder,’ said the widow. ‘Both his parents died of the plague. Some say that millers are always among the first to go, I don’t know why.’

‘I had not heard you’d been robbed. Does Captain Archer know this?’

Cissy shook her head. ‘It seemed such a small thing beside Drogo’s murder, I did not want to complain of a bauble. If they find the murderer they will find the ring.’

Lucie did not think that was necessarily so. ‘Knowing to look for the ring might help them. When did this happen?’

‘My daughters and I were at St Mary’s for Drogo’s burial service. When I walked into the house it felt strange. I knew someone had been there. Searching. They had tried to put things back, but there were things in odd places. I didn’t notice at first that the ring was gone for I seldom wear it. But it must have been taken that day.’

‘No wonder you have difficulty sleeping,’ said Lucie. She excused herself to tell Edric what to mix for Cissy while they talked. As she returned she was mulling over what the widow had said that might be of use to Owen. She was curious about Drogo’s background. Perhaps it would suggest something to Owen.

‘What mill did Drogo’s parents work?’ she asked.

‘You would not know it — the Gamyll family’s mill near Weston.’

Lucie’s pulse raced at the hope of answers at last. ‘Weston. Are you from there?’

Wiping away tears, Cissy shook her head. ‘I’ve always lived in the city.’

‘How long ago had he lived there?’

‘Years now. I’ve never seen it and we wed eleven years ago.’ She wiped her cheeks again. ‘He’d no family left, nothing from them but the ring. That is why it meant so much to him — and to me.’ She bowed her head and breathed deeply as if to control her tears.

Edric brought a cup of watered wine from the workshop, mouthing to Lucie that he’d put in a pinch of valerian. Confident in his judgement of how much to add, she nodded to him to offer it to Cissy. While the woman sipped, Lucie tried to think what else to ask her. She wondered whether Drogo could have recognised the birthing cross and so kept it.

‘When you realised the ring was gone, did you check to see whether anything else was missing?’

Cissy nodded. ‘I looked through everything. They’d taken a few coins I’d hidden away. Pennies. Nothing else.’

‘Did you find anything that you’d never seen before?’

She frowned at Lucie. ‘No.’ Her eyes were steady now; the wine was taking effect. ‘My Drogo was no thief, Dame Lucie. I’m sure he kept that lad’s scrip so long because he was away, but he’d always meant to return it. He wanted to teach him not to bother the bargemen, that is all he meant to do.’

‘I do understand that the young scholars irritate the bargemen, Dame Cissy. Did he ever show you a small gold cross, a pendant?’

She shook her head, frowning. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It was a thought, just that. Would you describe the ring for me?’

‘It is a gold ring with a small but pretty ruby. The gold is patterned, like lace around the ruby, and I’ve always worried that I’d bend it. That’s why I didn’t wear it much. It’s not a ring for every day.’

As Cissy relaxed she spoke of Drogo’s frequent travels downriver and back, jobs he seldom knew about until the day he must depart. She knew nothing about who employed him as a pilot or what the boats carried. What he told the children about was Kingston-upon-Hull and the great estuary, especially the water fowl.

‘He painted such pictures with words.’ Cissy looked away, dabbing her eyes. ‘They will miss that, my girls. Then they’ll remember him kindly.’

Glancing up from his reading Master Nicholas groaned to see Owen and George Hempe enter the schoolroom. ‘More questions? For pity’s sake, I swear I’ve told you all I know of Drogo and his story.’ But he looked more frightened than frustrated, and the hand that closed the book trembled a little.

‘Let us withdraw to your chamber,’ said Owen. ‘I would not like someone to walk in while we are talking.’

Nicholas looked from one to the other, his neck so tensed that his head shook. ‘Why?’

‘Look at you,’ said Owen, ‘you are already upset. You do not want a student to enter and see you so.’ He walked over to the connecting door.

Nicholas rubbed his bald head as if it helped him decide what to do, then crossed over to open the door. He stood back to let them through. As he passed, Owen smelled the man’s fear. Nicholas followed them into the room with an air of dread, his usually lively arms pressed to his sides, hands clasped. He glanced around and noticed the disturbed pile of hats.

‘What is this?’ He looked at Owen with growing anger, his face darkening. ‘Have you been in here without my permission?’

‘Yes, we searched your chamber.’ Owen did not like that he’d done so. He could well imagine Nicholas’s sense of betrayal.

‘What right had you?’ the schoolmaster hissed. ‘This is outrageous.’

‘I remind you that two men have been murdered,’ said Hempe.

‘I need no reminding,’ Nicholas said to Hempe, then turning to Owen. ‘I’ve cooperated with you, Captain, and this is how you treat me?’ There was a catch in his voice.

‘I am acting on behalf of Archbishop Thoresby,’ Owen said.

Nicholas said nothing for a moment, apparently waiting for more of an explanation. When none came, he said, ‘Then I’ll speak to His Grace, not you, the captain of his guard.’

‘In good time,’ said Owen. ‘First I would ask you for the truth of how you came to have the Gamyll cross and this.’ Owen held out the scrip. ‘This is the one that Drogo the bargeman tossed to a lad on the barges the night he died, young Hubert’s scrip. You knew where Master John of St Peter’s had hidden it.’

His eyes wide with alarm Nicholas shouted, ‘Why do you persecute me? What do you want of me? I’ve never seen that before.’

‘I do not purpose to persecute you, but it’s difficult for me to believe you’ve never seen it, Master Nicholas, for I found it tucked inside your dark red hat. And this was in it.’ Owen held out the ring.

‘My hat — ’ Nicholas shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘I’ve never seen that ring, either.’ He glanced over at the pile, then at Hempe, who met his gaze without blinking, then back to Owen. ‘Someone must have put the scrip there. Perhaps Chancellor Thomas had someone hide it here so that I’d be blamed. Murder. Theft. Deceit. They’re determined to prove that I am not fit to teach the children of York, that I’m not fit to wear the cloth. They’ll have me executed for spite since the archbishop won’t agree to excommunicating me.’ Spitting out the words, his eyes wild, Nicholas Ferriby looked unfit indeed. He rubbed his head again, then his brow.

‘They do not need to go to such lengths,’ said Owen, ‘you know that. Help me prove your innocence, Master Nicholas.’

‘I’ll help you with nothing. I will speak to His Grace,’ Nicholas insisted.

‘So be it,’ said Owen. ‘We’ll escort you to his palace.’

‘God be praised,’ cried Nicholas. ‘His Grace will hear me.’

The setting sun had already disappeared in the city streets, though now and then as they walked a beam would flicker between the roofs, and in the ray of light it seemed that Owen could yet feel the sun’s warmth, but he thought it unlikely. It was a confusing time of day, the play of light and shadow, the blue sky above and the darkness below. He wondered how Nicholas must be feeling if he was truly innocent of the theft of the scrip and ring. If innocent, what overwhelmingly damning ‘evidence’ he must now discredit. Owen wished he knew to whom the ring belonged. He prayed that they might find out in time to prevent another murder.

* * *

Hubert must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew Aubrey was gently shaking him.

‘The sun’s going down. Your ma will be worried,’ he said.

At first Hubert went rigid with unease that his father was so close, but as he rubbed his eyes he remembered their conversation. Aubrey loved him even though he was Sir Baldwin’s bastard. He’d loved him from the moment he was born.

‘I don’t want to go back to her, Da. Can’t I stay with you?’

Sitting down on the pallet beside Hubert, Aubrey shook his head. ‘I’ll return to her soon. She is my wife, and I love her.’

‘Even when she hurts you?’

Removing the hat that covered his dark, thinning hair, Aubrey scratched his head, then replaced the cap and sighed. ‘You’re still so young, Hubert. I’m not sure how much of all this you understand. But the love between a husband and wife who chose one another is not necessarily a happy love. We need each other, and it might be because of that need that we hurt each other, when one of us isn’t paying enough attention to the other. I don’t know. God knows I’ve done what I believe is expected of a husband.’ He bowed his head. ‘What was it that you lost?’ he asked, looking up again. ‘You mentioned a cross? A piece of jewellery belonging to Sir Baldwin?’

Hubert nodded. ‘I didn’t know then. I thought it was Ma’s.’

‘I wonder — perhaps she’s frightened that he’ll accuse her of stealing it.’ Aubrey spoke so softly he seemed to be talking to himself.

‘He already knows I took it.’ Hubert thought this would be a good time to tell Aubrey about Osmund’s visits. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t get out the words. He didn’t want to hurt his father. Instead he scrambled to his feet and crossed to the door. With his back to his father, he thanked him for the afternoon. ‘I love you,’ he said, and was ready to hurry out.

But Aubrey joined him at the door. ‘I’ll walk with you to the top of the hill.’

In the deepening gloom Hubert was glad of the escort. The wind whipped the trees about, tossing debris in his face, forcing him to keep blinking. Even when he broke out into open sky the light was fast fading. He realised he must have slept a long while. They crossed the frozen stream and approached the hill.

Aubrey paused, sniffing. ‘Who would be daft enough to light a fire in the fields in such wind?’

Hubert paused to wipe his eyes, while, muttering and huffing, Aubrey began the ascent. As Hubert started after him he started coughing. The smoke was thicker now.

‘Christ God Almighty!’ Aubrey shouted at the top and disappeared down the hill towards home.

When Hubert reached the top of the hill he did not at once comprehend what he saw. Down below it was all smoke and flames, like a field burning. But he should be able to see his house. As he resolved the layout in his mind he did not want to believe it and tried to figure out a different explanation. He could no longer follow his father’s progress for the smoke and flames were all that he could see. His house stood in that field. His home. He began to run down the hill.

‘Ma!’ he shrieked. ‘Ma!’

As he reached the field Hubert could see his house engulfed in flames, the high wind fanning them. The roar, hiss and crackle of the fire was terrifying, and it rose so high he felt overwhelmed, too small to have any effect on such a conflagration. But the large timbers still stood. It was not destroyed. He must save her. It was his fault. He should not have left her. The smoke choked and blinded him. Taking off his hood he covered his mouth and nose and pushed on towards the house.

‘Whoa, son, whoa.’

Hubert was picked up and carried away from the fire, then set down but held tightly with powerful arms.

‘Ma!’ he shrieked. ‘What if she’s in there?’

‘How long has it burned?’ he heard Aubrey breathlessly ask and he wanted to shake him for wasting time on such a useless question.

‘I’ve been here a while,’ said the man holding Hubert. He realised it was Sir Baldwin. ‘Where were you, Aubrey? Where’ve you been, man? My men searched for you.’

‘God in heaven, save that for later. Has anyone seen Ysenda?’ Aubrey’s voice broke.

‘No,’ said Baldwin. ‘My servants saw the flames and raised all the others they could find quickly. By the time we arrived we could do no more than soak the outbuildings. My hall is so near — I would have thought she’d flee to us. Surely Ysenda would have run for her life.’

‘I pray God that she did,’ Aubrey sobbed.

Hubert remembered his mother stumbling by the fire the previous evening. He did not know whether she would have been able to run in that state, and there had been more cider, plenty more for her to drink today. ‘If she was drinking she might not have felt the fire until it was too late,’ he cried.

Sir Baldwin mumbled something that Hubert could not understand as his son Osmund joined them.

‘I saw you and the boy running down the hill just now, Master Aubrey. God’s blood you took your time.’

Hubert almost spit at him. ‘Don’t talk to my da that way!’

‘So where were you, Hubert?’ Osmund asked with a sneer.

‘Go help with the buckets,’ Sir Baldwin snapped.

Hubert needed no one to fuel his feelings of guilt. ‘I left her. I shouldn’t have left her.’ He gathered all his strength to push against Sir Baldwin’s arms, but made no headway. They couldn’t hold him here, it wasn’t right. God give me the strength to break free. The flames boiled and flared, lighting the twilight with their ghastly glow, masking all that might yet be in the house. He could not stay still. He had no right to stand there in safety. He leaned into Sir Baldwin’s arms again, but the man only tightened his grip.

‘You love her, both of you. Why aren’t you helping her?’

‘To enter that blaze would be certain death,’ said Aubrey. ‘Your mother is no fool. She will have found her way to safety.’

‘If she’d been injured,’ Osmund said, ‘she might have been trapped.’

‘Dear God, don’t let her die like this,’ Hubert shrieked.

‘Osmund, leave us,’ Sir Baldwin commanded. ‘Your father’s right, Hubert,’ he said in a far gentler tone, ‘we must have faith that Ysenda is safely sitting beside a fire nearby. There is nothing we can do about anything that was in the house.’

Hubert finally collapsed against him and wept.

Looking beyond the servant who greeted them at the palace door, Owen saw Brother Michaelo reading to Archbishop Thoresby in the glow of lamps placed around them. Despite the fire in the middle of the hall a brazier burned near them. It was a scene of comfort and camaraderie that Owen was sorry to interrupt, knowing how disappointed Thoresby would be to hear of the strong evidence against Nicholas Ferriby.

‘If you would, ask His Grace if we might meet with him,’ Owen said to the servant. ‘I am accompanied by Master Nicholas Ferriby and the bailiff George Hempe.’

The servant bowed and crossed the room. Michaelo glanced towards the doorway and said something to the archbishop. Thoresby nodded and turned as the servant began to speak.

‘Nicholas Ferriby, eh?’ Owen could clearly hear Thoresby’s deep voice. ‘Show them in, and then bring chairs and wine.’

Once they were settled, Thoresby nodded to Owen. ‘What has happened?’

‘Your Grace, I asked them to bring me here,’ said Master Nicholas. ‘They are persecuting me.’

‘Let us speak calmly and in good order,’ said Thoresby, his deep-set eyes coolly dismissing Master Nicholas for the moment. ‘Archer?’

Reminding himself that he was not the priest’s keeper, Owen informed Thoresby of his meeting with Canon William, and then with Nicholas, the receipt of the cross, and his subsequent search of the chamber where he’d found the scrip and ring.

Thoresby leaned his head back against his high, cushioned chair, his expression pained. ‘Nicholas Ferriby,’ he said softly, ‘you are a disappointment.’

‘Your Grace,’ Nicholas cried, rising from his chair.

‘Be silent!’ Thoresby commanded. ‘Hempe, how do you come to be involved?’

Owen was curious how he would explain himself.

Hempe straightened up in his chair, placed his cup of wine on a small table beside him, and then cleared his throat. With an uncharacteristic deference he said, ‘Your Grace, I am well aware that I have overreached my duties in assisting the captain, but I could not help myself. This city is not safe until the murderer is found and brought to justice. Since the beginning I have been uneasy in my mind about this murderer, that he has no fear of God. He did not kill in a rage and then repent. He planned his kills. I felt compelled to help Captain Archer however I might.’

‘He’s been of great help to me,’ Owen said.

Thoresby sat with steepled hands, studying Hempe, and Owen thought he read approval in his expression.

‘They had no right to search my chamber,’ said Nicholas.

‘Be quiet, Master Nicholas.’ Thoresby had not moved his gaze from Hempe. ‘You follow your conscience, Master Bailiff, I have witnessed this before in you. I thank you for assisting Archer in this distasteful search.’

Hempe’s face glowed as he bowed to the archbishop. Owen was glad for him. The schoolmaster looked petulant. Owen thought it a strange little drama in the midst of something far more sinister.

‘Now, Master Nicholas.’ Thoresby still sat with his hands in front of his face as if his conversation was partly with himself. ‘I interest myself in this business for the sake of my dear friend Emma Ferriby, not for any virtue of yours.’

Owen did not look over at Nicholas, for being blind in his left eye he’d need to turn quite obviously to see the man who sat to his left, and he was certain the man was already humbled enough. He knew how such words from the archbishop stung.

‘I suppose you would say that Chancellor Thomas is also persecuting you,’ Thoresby said with a sarcastic tone.

‘He wants to excommunicate me for teaching the children of York who cannot attend St Peter’s. Is that just?’ Nicholas’s face was quite red by now with righteous indignation and wine.

‘Who was this Drogo to you?’ Thoresby asked.

‘He was a stranger, Your Grace. I wish I knew how he came to know that the cross belonged in my parish.’ Nicholas tried to discreetly blot the sweat on his high forehead.

‘Have you any idea how he would have known, Archer?’ Thoresby asked.

Owen shook his head. ‘None yet, Your Grace.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘How do you suggest the scrip and ring came to be hidden in one of your hats, Master Nicholas?’

Now Owen permitted himself to turn his good eye on the schoolmaster, wanting to see how he received that question. Nicholas looked as mystified as he’d looked earlier.

‘Your Grace, I cannot say. But as Captain Archer has just told us, Chancellor Thomas knew where the scrip had been hidden. I believe it possible that he ordered it put there.’

‘Indeed? An interesting place to put it, in a hat.’ Thoresby smirked. ‘How do you suppose the chancellor came to have it?’

‘Master John might have given it to him. Why would he keep it? But he might have removed it himself, or had it removed.’

‘Your Grace,’ Owen broke in, becoming impatient with Thoresby’s baiting, ‘Master John was keeping the scrip for Hubert when he returns. I was with him when he discovered it missing, and I believed his dismay.’

‘And what of the ring, Archer?’ asked Thoresby. ‘To whom does it belong?’

‘I don’t yet know.’

‘We’ll leave that for now.’ Thoresby dropped his hands and leaned forward, looking at Nicholas. ‘I must ask you why you persist in keeping your school in the minster liberty when its presence there has caused so much distress. This is a large city, Master Nicholas, why not move it? I doubt that your scholars would desert you. Why must it be there?’

‘The parents of my scholars deem it an honour to send their children to the liberty, Your Grace, and they count it a safe, respectable part of the city, with your guardsmen and so many clerics there. It pleases them.’

‘I propose that it also feeds your pride, Master Nicholas.’

Owen found it difficult to sit still, having been Thoresby’s target too often to find this comfortable.

Nicholas bristled but dropped his gaze in a gesture of humility. ‘Your Grace, I swear to you that was not my purpose. I was offered a fair lease on the property, which was well suited for a schoolroom and my private chamber.’

‘That may be so,’ said Thoresby. ‘We’ll discuss this again. For now, the school is closed until your name is cleared.’ He rose. All rose.

Nicholas stood with head bowed. Owen noticed that his knuckles were white as bone.

‘Michaelo, have a room prepared for Master Nicholas,’ said Thoresby.

Glancing up, Nicholas said, ‘For me?’

‘You’ll bide here until such time as I know what to do with you.’

‘You are most kind,’ Nicholas murmured.

Thoresby had already turned to Owen and Hempe. ‘Come with me to my parlour. I would talk further.’

As Owen followed Thoresby across the hall he was thinking about Canon William’s presence when Master John tucked the scrip into the box. It was difficult to imagine Chancellor Thomas being so desperate as to put the scrip in Nicholas’s chamber to implicate him, but excommunication was itself a desperate step. William had mentioned the scrip’s hiding place to the chancellor.

In the parlour, Thoresby asked that they review with him all they knew so far and with whom they had talked. It was a tedious meeting and Owen was glad when he finally escaped into the cold evening air. He even welcomed the snow that had begun to fall in large flakes.

Standing well away from the burning house and behind the wind that fed the flames, Hubert and Sir Baldwin, along with many neighbours, watched in grim fascination the gradual collapse of the last upright pole. Aubrey was moving among the crowd asking whether any had seen Ysenda. There was an audible sigh from the watchers when the pole settled in the embers.

Sir Baldwin put a hand on Hubert’s shoulder, ‘There is no more to see, lad, and we’ve all breathed too much smoke and ash. Come to the hall. You will stay with us until you return to school.’

‘And Da?’ Hubert felt strange, speaking of his adoptive father with his natural father. He wondered whether Sir Baldwin thought of him as his son at all.

‘Aubrey shall come as well. He has saved my life many a time in France. I can at least shelter him and help him search for your mother in return.’

They waited until Aubrey made his way back to them. He was shaking his head. ‘No one has seen her. Tomorrow, in daylight — ’ He pressed his hands to his face.

Hubert put a hand on his forearm. ‘Come, Da, let’s go to the hall. Sir Baldwin says we’re to bide with him there.’

Dropping his hands, Aubrey lifted his face to the sky and howled. It was a terrible sound, filled with anguish like an animal caught in a trap. Hubert crossed himself and knelt to pray that his mother had escaped the fire.

Snow began to fall again as they quietly walked to the manor house, giving Hubert a new worry, that his mother had not had the presence of mind to take a warm cloak as she’d fled, if she’d fled.

Though Hempe had hurried on, Owen was still standing on the steps to the archbishop’s palace watching the snow when Peter Ferriby, Emma’s husband, took the steps two at a time and halted just below him, gasping for breath and obviously concerned.

‘I heard that my brother Nicholas was escorted here by you and one of the city bailiffs, Owen.’ Peter was larger and more imposing than either of his brothers, partially due to his quietly elegant attire.

‘He was,’ said Owen. ‘We found Hubert de Weston’s scrip in your brother’s chamber, and a ring that he swears he’s never seen before. He demanded to speak with the archbishop, so we escorted him here.’

Peter looked away with a curse, then back to Owen. ‘You searched my brother’s chamber? Why did you think to do that?’

Owen told him about Nicholas’s inability to explain why Drogo would have given him the Gamyll cross, and William’s admission that he’d told Nicholas where Master John had hidden the scrip.

‘I see.’ Peter dropped his gaze, slowly shaking his head. ‘God help him.’

‘I’m certain he would welcome your company right now,’ said Owen, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going home.’

Wrapped in blankets and sipping spiced wine, Hubert and Aubrey listened to Sir Baldwin’s account of Owen Archer’s visit and the missing cross, as well as the murder of Drogo.

Hubert’s father slumped lower and lower as he listened with dismay to the tale. ‘That cross,’ he cried when Sir Baldwin was finished. ‘Why did you take that, Hubert? What could you want with a birthing cross?’

‘A very good question,’ laughed Osmund as he rose from his comfortable chair by the fire. ‘I regret that I cannot stay to hear your explanation. I pray you, be at ease.’ Despite his lazy expression he seemed in a hurry to depart.

But Hubert was glad to see the back of him. ‘I didn’t know what it was, Da.’ He felt himself blushing. He unhappily repeated how he’d wanted something of his mother’s close to him. It seemed foolish now, and worse, it had not even been hers. He wished he could forget it.

‘That such a simple, innocent act could cause a man’s death. God have mercy on us,’ Aubrey said, crossing himself.

Hubert had expected anger and felt a wave of relief wash over him. Aubrey seemed far more concerned about why Ysenda had taken the cross in the first place. ‘She said nothing about being with child or having lost one,’ he said.

‘Osmund found it odd when I told him about all this earlier,’ said Baldwin.

‘It isn’t right, talking about Ma like this when she’s out there somewhere,’ Hubert blurted out.

A long, uncomfortable silence descended on the room.

‘Drogo,’ Aubrey said, suddenly breaking the spell. ‘The miller and his wife who died in the pestilence had a son called Drogo.’

‘The miller’s son. Sweet Jesu, you are right, Aubrey,’ said Baldwin. ‘I wish I’d remembered that for Captain Archer.’ He glanced at his young wife, who was sitting quietly, her sewing forgotten in her lap. ‘It is a common name in the parish, but uncommon elsewhere.’

She smiled at him. ‘It is a large estate, my lord. How could you remember the names of all the children?’

As the snow fell without the house, Lucie, Phillippa, Alisoun and the children sat close to the hall fire, listening to Phillippa’s tales of life at Freythorpe. Gwenllian loved to hear about her grandfather, Sir Robert, whom she remembered. Hugh had been too small to remember him well.

Lucie kept watching the door, anxious to tell Owen about all she’d learned from Drogo’s widow. At last he appeared, rosy cheeked from the cold and well dusted with snow — and looking exhausted, the lines in his face etched more deeply than usual. She waited until he’d settled with a cup of ale and appeared to be both warm and comfortable before telling him of Cissy’s visit.

When she described the ring, he sat forward and excitedly asked her to repeat what she’d said. ‘The ring in the scrip,’ he said when she’d done so. He seemed unaware of her for some moments. ‘It does not fit with the rest. But the Gamylls’ miller, yes, that could tie them together.’ He suddenly focused again on Lucie. ‘Tell me everything, what she looks like, what she said, anything you can recall.’

She understood his interest once he told her about finding the scrip in Nicholas’s chamber, with the ring hidden inside.

‘Drogo might have put it there while he had the scrip and forgotten to remove it when he returned it,’ she said. ‘You did not notice it at first.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ said Owen. ‘Geoffrey was quite certain that the scrip was empty, and surely Master John handled the scrip enough to have noticed the ring if it had been in there. Someone put the two together and placed them in Nicholas’s chamber, someone determined to make him look guilty of something far worse than opening a school in the minster liberty.’

Lucie could think of only two people who might wish to do that, and she could not believe they would sink to such depths. ‘It cannot be the chancellor and dean.’

Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch, a sign of deep weariness. ‘At present I can think of no one else, my love.’

She was incredulous. ‘You think it possible?’

He shrugged.

Lucie found the idea of Churchmen behaving so ignobly, with so little regard to human life, very disturbing. ‘Nicholas could be put to death for such offences.’

‘I know. Someone will be. Someone murdered those two men.’

She moved next to him and took his hand. ‘Owen, do you think Nicholas might be guilty?’

‘Could he be such a fool?’ He leaned his forehead against Lucie’s, and she wished he would gather her up and take her upstairs, though as she followed the thought she realised it would not be quite as romantic as her spontaneous thought. ‘I don’t know, Lucie, I think him a stubborn fool for challenging St Peter’s School, but that does not make him a murderer.’

She moved a little so she could kiss Owen on the lips. She would never tire of him.

‘No, that does not make him a murderer,’ she agreed, ‘just a foolish man. I suppose you’ll return to the palace after supper?’

Owen sighed, then pulled her to him and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘Yes, I must trudge through the snow to ask more questions. It is my duty, though I curse the need to leave you.’ His quiet evening with Lucie was not to be.