The Guilt of Innocents

Twelve

The snow that had been threatening all afternoon with huge, heavy clouds and a cold wind that sent debris skittering down the streets and alleyways finally began in the evening. Gwenllian noticed it as she closed the shutters in the chamber she shared with Hugh and Alisoun, and ran to the landing to shout the news to those down below. Lucie laughed at her excitement.

‘When you wake in the morning the world might be white, as if someone played a trick on you in the night, covering up everything that points the way for you,’ said Lucie.

Gwenllian clapped her hands and skipped back to her room, but Lucie toppled headlong into worry about Owen’s journey home.

‘He will not ride if the snowdrifts are too deep, Lucie,’ said Phillippa. ‘Your father is not in the habit of taking such risks.’

How strangely her aunt’s mind worked, reading Lucie’s mood but mistaking the one about whom she worried because she’d slipped back into the past, confusing Owen with Sir Robert. Lucie patted Phillippa’s hand and thanked her.

In the morning, Owen cursed the weather. Snow drifted to several feet against parts of the buildings circling the yard. Making his way from the hall to relieve himself was a cold, wet business. But the sun had risen in a clear sky, which could mean that he would be able to set out for home later.

Lady Gamyll reported that Ysenda had been able to sit up to drink the tisane the healer had left as well as some broth. ‘I believe you might talk to her this morning, Captain.’

Owen and his hostess had enjoyed a quiet conversation the previous night about Lucie and her joy over being with child. Lady Gamyll had asked many questions about his children, winning his devotion, and she seemed to have decided she might consider him a friend. She knew he wished to depart as soon as possible, believing the reason to be Lucie’s imminent lying in. Which was as well, for despite all they’d said about Osmund the previous day, Baldwin had been clear about not having shared his feelings about his son with her, so Owen did not wish to explain his fear of what Osmund might do in York.

Owen asked Aubrey and Baldwin to join him in talking to Ysenda, hoping to save time. Hubert was incensed about not being included, despite Lady Gamyll’s attempts to engage him in some activity with her.

Aubrey knelt to him, and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I pray that your unease about some of your mother’s actions may soften in time, Hubert, and that you will once again feel that deep love for her that has always given me such joy to witness. That is why I don’t want you to come with us. I fear that you might hear things that would increase your unease. You’re too young to grasp how vulnerable any of us sometimes are to temptation. Do you understand?’

By the boy’s expression Owen could tell that he understood to an extent, but was unconvinced.

‘She scared me, Da, and then I got angry and ran. I didn’t want to stay with her and listen to her apologies. I left her again. That’s when the house burned, and she was hurt. I hurt her, like I thought I would when I lost the cross. I want to know what really happened.’

‘I will tell you.’

Hubert narrowed his eyes. ‘Will you tell me the whole truth about how it happened, even if you think I’m too young to understand?’

Aubrey dropped his head.

Owen was not certain what his own decision would be if Hubert were his son.

Looking up at Hubert, Aubrey asked, ‘Do you swear to believe me?’

Hubert shrugged.

Rising, Aubrey nodded to his son. ‘Then come with us. I don’t want you to doubt.’

Owen hoped Aubrey did not later regret his decision.

Ysenda was resting against a pile of pillows, her face swollen and the eye beneath the wound blackened and swollen almost shut. But she forced a weak smile for her visitors.

‘I don’t remember how I came to be lying by the pond,’ she said with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Is that not strange?’ She noticed Hubert, who’d entered last, and held out her arm. ‘Come kiss me, my dear boy. I thank God you were not in the house when it happened.’

Hubert hung back. ‘What happened, Ma? How did the fire start?’

She turned with a frown towards Aubrey. ‘Where have you been? I was so worried.’

‘Not far, but too far to save the house. How did the fire begin?’

She lifted her bandaged hand, then settled it back on a pillow with an unconvincing whimper. ‘Let’s talk of pleasant things this morning. I’m not well.’ She anxiously looked at Hubert and Aubrey.

There was no doubt of the truth of her last words, for the skin on the forearm of her wounded hand did not look healthy, and there was still an odour of rotting flesh about her.

‘We’ll talk of pleasant things later. We must talk this morning of important things, Ysenda,’ said Aubrey. ‘How did the fire start?’

Biting her lip, Ysenda frowned at Sir Baldwin. ‘God bless you for taking us in, and taking care of me, my lord.’

Owen thought it time to tell her about his discovery. She closed her eyes when he mentioned the chest, and her breathing quickened.

‘How did it begin, Dame Ysenda?’ Sir Baldwin suddenly interrupted. ‘When did you begin to steal from me?’

She looked at him with an injured expression. ‘My lord?’

‘Ysenda, I’ve spent years returning the things you took from the hall,’ said Aubrey in a weary tone. ‘You cannot pretend it is not so. But I thought you’d taken only little things.’

‘Hubert, leave us,’ Ysenda cried, a desperate expression in her eyes. ‘They are being cruel. You don’t want to hear this. I don’t want you to hear this.’

Aubrey shook his head at Hubert and gestured for him to stay. ‘Your son deserves to hear the truth.’

‘It does not sound as if truth will be heard in this company,’ she said, and despite her obvious discomfort she struggled to sit up straighter.

Owen assisted her with the pillows. She thanked him in a half-heartedly flirtatious undertone.

‘Now, Dame Ysenda, you must understand that we have the evidence in the hall,’ Owen said, pulling her down to earth. ‘A chest we dug up from your outbuilding. Neither your son nor your husband knows anything about how it came to be there.’ He spoke quietly, but loud enough for all in the room to hear. ‘As your husband said, you cannot pretend it isn’t so.’

Ysenda looked at Sir Baldwin, Aubrey, Hubert, her eyes lingering on her son as tears rolled down her swollen and bruised cheeks. ‘I am so ashamed. Pretty things — I love pretty things. I see them and I think just this one little ribbon, this pretty glass, I will take it for a little while and then put it back. And then I cannot part with it. God forgive me. When I was caught, I was frightened for my husband’s good name.’

Owen, next to Aubrey, heard him grunt.

‘Caught by whom?’ Owen prompted.

Ysenda lowered her eyes. ‘Master Osmund. He’s always watched me, coveted me. He found his way when he saw me take a length of silk. He followed me home and pulled it out from my gown. I was so ashamed. Then he searched the house. He found a cup from the hall. After that he was often at my house when Aubrey and Hubert were out, demanding payment for his silence.’

‘Evil,’ whispered Sir Baldwin.

Aubrey pulled Hubert close and asked him if he wanted to leave. The boy shook his head. One benefit of the boy’s presence, Owen thought, was that Aubrey would guard his tongue, which might speed the inquiry.

‘Could you not have stopped taking things?’ Owen asked.

‘I had stopped. You cannot believe — ’ she closed her eyes — ‘of course you can. But I had stopped. Then Sir Baldwin took a young wife. Osmund feared he would be disinherited and left with nothing. Now he told me what to steal, and where to hide it.’

‘What?’ Aubrey cried.

‘For pity’s sake, why did you not come to me?’ asked Baldwin. ‘Surely you knew to trust me?’

Ysenda frowned at him. ‘He frightened me. Hurt me. I don’t know.’ The tears fell faster and she began to sob. ‘I know I’ve said it over and over again, but I was so ashamed. At least only he knew.’

‘Tears will not send us away,’ said Baldwin. ‘Calm yourself, Dame Ysenda.’ It was a crisp command.

Ysenda covered her face and gradually quieted.

‘What did my son intend with the hoard?’ Baldwin demanded. Owen was surprised by his lack of sympathy.

Ysenda took a few deep breaths. ‘He sent Drogo to me now and then for particular items to take downriver to Hull, to sell them.’

Drogo’s frequent absences, Owen thought. ‘You knew Drogo well?’

She nodded.

‘You said little when I told you of his murder.’

Ysenda dropped her gaze. ‘I was afraid to say aught for fear I would be next. I’d known Drogo was in danger. He’d kept talking about how stingy Osmund was, that his part of the sale was worth far more than what Master Osmund allowed him to keep. Master Osmund had threatened that if either one of us ever turned greedy or if we betrayed him he would kill us, and I believed him. I knew Drogo was too stubborn to listen.’

‘But how did Osmund know that Drogo had the cross?’

‘The cross? I don’t believe he knew that Drogo had it. I don’t know that he would have cared. One little cross. He was angry that Drogo had been lying about prices, keeping more than his share of the profit — I think he thought Drogo had been doing it much longer than he had. Poor Drogo,’ Ysenda cried, looking as if she would burst into tears. ‘He wanted to send his daughters to Father Nicholas’s school. He was a good father.’

‘There has been another death — a goldsmith’s journeyman,’ said Owen as he poured her some wine. ‘It seems Drogo showed him the birthing cross.’

Drying her eyes, Ysenda shook her head. ‘I don’t know why he would do that. He knew what it was — his mother was one of the first to survive a terrible delivery because of the cross,’ said Ysenda. ‘Unless he meant to sell it.’

‘Osmund had not told you to steal the cross.’

Ysenda shook her head.

‘I wish you’d told me why you wanted me to stay the last time Master Osmund came,’ said Hubert.

She tearfully thanked Owen for the wine and sipped it, seeming to calm a little. ‘I could not bring myself to tell you, my son. I could not.’

Owen believed she loved Hubert in her way, and that it pained her to be exposed in front of him. But he had to ask the final question.

Ysenda spoke first. ‘Captain Archer, is your son with you?’

‘No.’ He did not like the question. ‘Why do you ask, Dame Ysenda?’

‘I’ve been trying to remember what Osmund said about him. It was that day he came and called me a whore and a thief, and held my hand in the fire.’

‘Ysenda, no,’ Aubrey cried. ‘Did he start the fire?’

She’d bowed her head and was now sobbing quietly as she cradled her bandaged hand.

‘Why was he so desperate?’ Baldwin asked.

She drew a jagged breath. ‘Drogo said I was only one of several thieves — and he reckoned he was only one of several sellers. Osmund has much to protect.’

Owen could not wait in courtesy. ‘Dame Ysenda, is my son in danger?’

‘God protect him, for I fear that he might be,’ she whispered. ‘Osmund might use him to distract you.’

‘Then I must leave as soon as possible for York, you can understand that. I must get to Jasper before Master Osmund does. I beg you, tell us about that day.’

She took another deep breath. ‘He’d heard from Sir Baldwin of your coming to Weston asking the questions, and that you’d stayed at the hall. He said I must have known I must die, that he could not risk my talking about what he’d stolen. We’d had some cider, too much for me. I stood up and was dizzy. I stumbled, and when he grabbed me he put my hand in the flames and held it there. He said that was the way they dealt with thieves in the city. I fought him. Holy Mother of God, the pain was worse than childbirth. Then he hit me in the head.’ She touched her bandaged forehead. ‘I remember that, I remember falling, and my hem beginning to burn. I remember rolling away. Snow — I remember snow. Icy water that stopped the pain. A wagon ride. Then I woke here.’

Aubrey sat down on the bed, took her good hand and kissed it.

‘And sometime in the attack he mentioned my son?’ Owen asked.

‘Yes,’ she sobbed.

‘There was a ring in the scrip Hubert had taken to York,’ he said, ‘Drogo’s mother’s ring.’

‘Sweet Jesus, oh dear Drogo — ’ Her voice broke and she looked away from Aubrey.

Owen asked Hubert to find Alfred and tell him to get their horses ready.

‘And mine,’ said Sir Baldwin. ‘If you apprehend Osmund, I want to be there.’

Hubert nodded and withdrew.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Ysenda. ‘At least he won’t hear — I loved that ring. Drogo had given it to me when we made our vows long ago, in front of friends. But then I discovered I was with child, my lord’s child, and — I confess I thought I might do better. I went to Sir Baldwin and he named Aubrey as a man worthy of me.’

‘You were wed to Drogo?’ Aubrey cried. ‘Do you even know whose son you bore? Christ, how could I have loved you?’ It was his turn to look away.

‘I was too far along for it to be Drogo’s child,’ she said. ‘A woman knows these things. Was the ring in the scrip when Drogo returned it?’

‘No.’

She looked crestfallen. ‘I thought — I’m foolish, but I thought for a moment that Drogo meant for me to have the ring. That he’d put it in the scrip to give to Hubert.’

‘We believe it was stolen from Drogo’s home after he died,’ said Owen. ‘Did Osmund know the significance of the ring?’

‘I spoke of it to him, yes. I wanted him to know that someone had truly loved me, wanted to wed me — he liked to remind me that his father had coaxed Aubrey into wedding me.’ She was looking at the back of her husband’s head. ‘I learned to love you, Aubrey.’

‘You were never my wife,’ he said in a broken voice.

Owen still did not understand why Osmund or anyone would add the ring to the scrip, but at present that was not his greatest concern. He must protect Jasper.

As Jasper stepped out to the street on his way to school he laughed at the shrieks coming from the garden — Gwenllian and Hugh had rushed out to attack the snow. He remembered feeling that way about it.

He had not told Dame Lucie about seeing Osmund Gamyll the previous evening, fearing she’d worry and find reasons to keep him home until the captain returned. That would not do, because Jasper felt a responsibility to let Master Nicholas know the man had been trying his doors. He’d felt guilty all night for not having told the guard. He headed for the archbishop’s palace.

Brother Michaelo showed him in at once, escorting him to the chapel where Master Nicholas knelt in prayer. Jasper was awed by the great hall they passed through, and the stone passage to the chapel. It was a house such as a king might live in, he thought.

His account frightened Master Nicholas, that was plain.

‘I have never trusted Osmund Gamyll,’ the master said, ‘and he’s betrayed me to my brother, telling him about my admiration for John Wycliff’s honesty. William could not hide his disappointment in me.’

Alisoun had told Jasper about his heretical ideas.

‘They’ll add it to their case for my excommunication.’ Nicholas groaned. ‘My dear boy, thank you for telling me this. I will be careful once I’m back in my school. If I’m ever so fortunate.’

As Jasper was leaving, Michaelo warned him to go to school and leave the sleuthing to his father. He did not need to warn him of that, Jasper thought. He must think him a fool.

When they found an inn for the night, Sir Baldwin went to the church across the way to pray. He had talked a little whenever they paused to rest the horses, about his hopes for more children, his memories of Osmund when young and innocent, and it was plain the man was struggling with the knowledge of his son’s guilt — for it seemed certain that Osmund had murdered both Drogo and Nigel.

The inn was a much better one than the last, and Owen and Alfred settled near the fire with well-deserved tankards of ale. Owen recounted all that Ysenda had said, as much to mull it over as to fill in Alfred.

‘Now I understand why he’s not talking,’ said Alfred. ‘Poor man. Do you think he’ll tell all to his new lady? I don’t think I would.’

‘How else would he explain his son’s arrest? She must know all in order to understand Sir Baldwin’s acceptance of Osmund’s guilt.’

‘If Osmund’s hurt Jasper, do we kill him?’

Owen closed his eyes, trying not to picture Jasper floating in the river, but there it was, a horrible image. ‘Yes. We kill him.’

It was a dreary morning, the icicles dripping from the rooftops, the snow, so pretty the day before, now slush. Jasper felt left behind, powerless, frustrated that there was nothing more he could do than he’d done the previous day, warning Master Nicholas. It seemed a puny thing. Alisoun had given him a warm smile last evening when he’d returned from school, and she’d been impressed that he’d been to the archbishop’s palace, asking more questions than he could answer. But when she’d asked him what else he meant to do, he’d admitted he didn’t think there was more that he could do until the captain returned, and she’d lost interest.

He’d been watching his feet as he walked along the city streets, avoiding puddles, but he had to look up to navigate around the people crossing every which way at the meeting of Stonegate and Petergate, and he thought he saw Osmund Gamyll walking quickly in the direction he’d taken the last time Jasper had seen him. His mood lifted. He did not think the man would risk trying the doors at Master Nicholas’s school again, for surely he’d think it possible Jasper had told the guard of his attempt the previous day, but he was curious where Osmund was headed. It might prove important.

Rounding the corner to Vicar Lane he saw Osmund walk past the guard in front of Master Nicholas’s school and continue down the street, turning left at Goodramgate. Jasper hurried after him, but by the time he reached Goodramgate there was no sign of Osmund. He rushed through the gate of Holy Trinity churchyard. No Osmund. He kept going down the house backs until he found the alley to Master Nicholas’s chamber. By now his feet were wet and icy, but he thought it would be well worth the pain if he picked up Osmund’s trail again. He had expected a guard here in the alley by the school, but no one was watching the side door. He wondered whether the man would be so bold as to slip in when the guard was out front — but he had tried the handle the previous day. Jasper tried the door handle. Unlocked. Perhaps another guard hid within. That would be clever. But it was only a guess. He decided against opening the door, though it was tempting. A guard might mistake Jasper for Osmund, or a thief. And if Osmund Gamyll were hiding behind the door he would be armed and ready. Feeling foolish for having made the chase but failed to bring the prey to ground, he told himself that at least he had some information for the captain. He turned his back on the door — it was time to continue on to school. He gasped as someone grabbed him and put a gag to his mouth.

It was late afternoon by the time Owen, Alfred and Sir Baldwin led their horses into the archbishop’s stables. Thinking to avoid another lecture from Thoresby on his late reporting, Owen stopped at the palace before heading home. Sir Baldwin seemed reluctant to see the archbishop in his present state, but he accompanied Owen.

Brother Michaelo welcomed them, and as he led Owen into the hall he inquired whether he’d been home as yet.

It was a chilling question. ‘No. What is wrong?’

Michaelo paused, and his expression lacked even a suggestion of his usual playfulness. ‘I have a bad feeling about Jasper.’ He told him of the boy’s visit the previous day.

Owen’s heart sank. ‘You could not have delivered worse news.’ He had feared that Jasper would recognise Osmund and follow him. It’s what he would have done at Jasper’s age.

‘Then I am glad I have told you,’ said Michaelo. ‘I can assure you that Jasper attended his classes yesterday, for I spoke to Master John in the evening. But there was a taste of adventure in the lad’s eyes that has worried me.’

Jasper had been all right the previous day. He prayed that was still so. ‘Have you spoken to Master John today?’ Owen asked.

‘No. Not yet. His Grace has kept me busy. Go to Master John now — before you go home.’

‘I will.’ Owen cursed under his breath. ‘Didn’t they put one of the guards on the school?’

‘Yes, and I am likely worrying for nothing. But we know that Jasper is resourceful, Captain.’

‘Keep Master Nicholas here, Michaelo,’ said Owen.

Sir Baldwin was right behind him as he hurried out.

A servant at St Peter’s School directed them to the Clee, where Master John was dining. Owen cursed. It was too long a walk to the Clee when he was in a hurry to find his son.

Sir Baldwin asked where Nicholas’s school was.

‘So near?’ he said. ‘Why don’t we talk to the guard? He might have seen Jasper today.’

Owen thanked him — he wasn’t thinking clearly or he would have come up with that himself. Memories of another time when he’d feared for Jasper’s life crowded his mind. They almost ran down Vicar Lane, startling people who unwittingly got in their way.

Seeing that the guard was Edmund, one of Owen’s newest men, he cursed himself for leaving Rafe in charge, with his philosophy of pushing inexperienced men into the thick of things, convinced that it was the only way they would learn because that is how he’d learned.

‘I’ve been here since midday and I’ve not seen the lad,’ said Edmund.

‘Who’s in the alley?’ Owen asked.

‘It’s just me, Captain. And this morning Colm. You might ask him if he saw Jasper.’

Owen could not believe the carelessness of Rafe’s command. ‘Do you check the alley at all?’

‘I do. I walk round the building, so I pass it often.’

‘Go to the barracks. Fetch Rafe and Gilbert here.’

Startled, Edmund hesitated.

‘Now!’

He took off.

‘What do you intend?’ asked Baldwin.

Owen was already at the door of the school, trying the latch. Locked. He headed round to the alley, Baldwin striding alongside him. It was mid-afternoon, but the alley was already dark. He wished Sir Baldwin were not with him, for if he found Jasper harmed …

The alley door was unlatched. Owen drew his dagger, then slowly opened the door. It was too dark to see, but he heard nothing. Crouching down, he crept into the chamber. Baldwin followed his lead, shutting the door behind him. Owen let his eye adjust before rising to look around. In the dimness he saw that the room was in disarray.

Baldwin tapped him on the arm. ‘I hear breathing.’ He moved towards the corner of the room taken up by the vestment press. Crouching by the trunk, Baldwin gestured for Owen to come. ‘In here. What’s in here?’

‘Clothing,’ Owen said softly. He heard footsteps in the alley, and opened the door a little to peer out, relieved to see that it was Rafe and Gilbert.

‘Stay! Who goes there?’ Rafe demanded.

‘Your captain, you fool.’ Owen swung the door wide seeing that Gilbert had the sense to bring a lantern, bold now that he had light and backup. ‘Open the shutter,’ Owen said.

Baldwin was trying to lift the lid on the press with one hand, his dagger in the other. Rafe crossed over to help him.

‘God have mercy,’ Baldwin sobbed, reaching into the chest and straightening with Jasper in his arms, bound and gagged and frighteningly limp.

‘He’d dead? No!’ Owen cried. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God. You said you heard breathing, damn you!’

‘He’s still warm, Captain. But stuffed into that chest — he couldn’t have had much air.’ Baldwin laid Jasper on Nicholas’s bed. ‘My son meant to kill him. Thank God he failed.’

‘For now,’ Rafe muttered as he cut the bonds and removed the gag.

‘He should be coughing,’ Owen moaned, pressing an ear to Jasper’s chest. He almost wept with relief to hear his strong young heart beating. He checked his limbs — Jasper groaned when Owen touched his right shoulder.

Baldwin began to rub Jasper’s wrists, Owen did the ankles. A shudder ran through the boy’s limbs and he opened his eyes. At first unfocused and confused, he fought them.

‘Steady, lad. You are safe. It’s your da,’ said Owen, knowing well this state of confusion on waking from such an attack as this must have been.

‘Da!’ Jasper cried, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. ‘You’re here.’

Owen helped him sit up. ‘I am, I’m here, you’re safe.’

‘I thought I was dying in there. I was so mad.’ Jasper knuckled his eyes. ‘So stupid.’

‘You’re alive. That is not stupid,’ Owen said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Rafe and Gilbert came from the schoolroom shaking their heads.

‘Someone’s gone through it, but they’re not there now,’ said Gilbert.

‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Jasper, ‘but that I did just what he wanted by following him here. He was pleased with himself. He said he was burying me alive because he didn’t kill boys.’

‘Who, Jasper?’ Owen asked, wanting to be sure.

‘Osmund Gamyll. Remember I saw him — ’

‘I’ll crush him,’ Baldwin growled.

‘Sir Baldwin?’ Jasper had not noticed him. ‘How are you here?’

‘There’s no time to explain,’ said Owen. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s gone?’

Jasper shook his head.

‘We need to get you home,’ Owen said. ‘Can you walk?’

Jasper inched his legs over to hang off the side of the pallet. Owen helped him stand, holding him as he struggled for his balance.

‘Not yet.’ Owen helped him sit back down.

‘Jasper! Praise God,’ Alfred exclaimed from the doorway. ‘Captain, the bailiff — ’

Hempe pushed Alfred out of the way. ‘Dame Lotta’s servant came for me. Osmund Gamyll is at her home, threatening her. The servant is old, Osmund must have thought he would not muster the strength to go for help. Lotta was Nigel’s landlord.’

‘Rafe, stay with Jasper,’ said Owen. ‘Gilbert — no that won’t work, Lucie can’t come through the snow, not now.’ He couldn’t think what to do. They would waste time sending for Brother Henry, for he might not be in the infirmary.

‘We’ll take him home, Captain, don’t worry,’ Gilbert said. ‘You’ve got three with you.’

Hempe led the way. A neighbour was pacing in front of Dame Lotta’s house. The street door stood wide open.

‘What has happened?’ the neighbour asked Hempe. ‘I’ve never seen old Paul rush like that, and there were shouts. They’re in the lodger’s room, down the alley.’

Alfred thanked him and told him to go home now.

‘There’s a door in the alley, the one from the hall, and a window on the very back,’ said Hempe.

‘Let’s see if we can look in the window,’ Owen suggested, his head clearer now that Jasper was safe.

A shutter was partly opened. Owen first saw only Dame Lotta, who was sitting on a bed shaking her head with a look of disgust, but he heard a man’s voice, slurring and broken with drink and fear. Standing on Alfred’s knee, he was able to see enough to locate Osmund off to one side of the window, a large mazer in his hand. His speech was too slurred and muffled to understand.

But Dame Lotta spoke quite clearly. ‘You’ll find no sympathy here. You should have thought about God’s vengeance before you committed such deeds. You’re not a child, you know better.’

Owen was relieved to hear her strong voice, but concerned that she would antagonise a man who had little to lose in murdering one more. He climbed down and withdrew to the street with Baldwin and Hempe.

‘I heard her,’ said Baldwin. ‘Too late he comes to a healthy fear of the Lord. She sounds uninjured, how does she look?’

‘I saw no sign of injury,’ said Owen.

‘Thank God,’ said Hempe.

‘But that could change at any time,’ Owen said. ‘He is drunk, he may lose control of himself.’

‘Aye,’ Baldwin agreed.

They quickly conceived a plan. Baldwin would confront his son by entering through the hall door which faced him. Hempe would guard the window, though it was unlikely Osmund would attempt to crawl out, and Owen would be at the alley door. Ready to kill him, Owen thought.

He waited until he heard Baldwin thunder his son’s name before he cracked open the door. Osmund was standing with open mouth, the mazer tilted, spilling wine.

‘What? Are you here?’ Osmund looked confused, then angry. ‘Get out!’

‘What have you done, Osmund?’ Baldwin’s voice was harsh with agony, but powerfully loud. ‘How many have you killed in your greed?’

Osmund tossed the cup aside and tried to straighten. His eyes flickered from Sir Baldwin to Dame Lotta, and then he clumsily bolted for the door.

Owen grabbed him and kept his forearm to his throat as he turned him to face his father, pressing as hard as he could without crushing his windpipe though it was all he could do to resist the instinct to kill him. Sir Baldwin stood in the middle of the room staring at his son with a world of pain in his eyes and in the twist of his mouth.

Hempe pushed past Owen and Osmund to go to Lotta. She shook her head at him. ‘Not now. Get this drunken murderer out of here first, the mewling beast, creature of the devil. He murdered them both — Nigel and the pilot — and now he fears God’s wrath and that of his fellow man. Get him out of my house.’

Owen dragged Osmund into the alley. Baldwin’s martial form blocked the light in the doorway.

‘What will you do with him?’ he asked.

‘Take him to York Castle gaol until the sheriff and the archbishop come to some agreement,’ said Hempe. ‘That is the law.’

It was not what Owen wanted to do with him, but in his heart he knew Lucie would want him to cooperate with Hempe, to let the man take his punishment from the king’s men. ‘I’ll go with you there,’ he said.

Sir Baldwin nodded. ‘I’ll accompany you as well.’

In a room lit only by a rush light, Osmund mumbled his confession, a jumble of self-righteous resentment and misplaced pride. Drogo he’d murdered for his greediness, for his betrayal, as Ysenda had feared.

‘And Nigel the journeyman?’ Hempe barked. ‘What threat was he to you?’

‘He wanted me to pay him for his silence. He shouldn’t have been any threat to me. I had nothing to do with the birthing cross Drogo showed him. Drogo should rot in hell, not me!’ Osmund’s voice was little more than a forced whisper.

Owen opened the box he’d found in Osmund’s room. ‘Which poison did you use on Drogo?’ he asked.

Osmund shook his head and looked away.

‘Why did you go to Dame Lotta?’ Hempe asked.

‘I went to a dead man’s chamber to hide while I thought about what to do.’

‘Why did you put Drogo’s ring in the scrip?’ Owen asked.

Osmund rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I can’t think. I need sleep. My throat hurts.’

‘Answer the question,’ Hempe said sharply.

‘Confusion! It was worth too little to risk selling, so I tucked it in. You thought about it, didn’t you?’ Osmund’s laugh was eerily high-pitched, then dissolved into a wheeze.

‘Let him sleep off the drink,’ Baldwin said in a voice flat with disappointment.

Hempe nodded. ‘I want him clear-headed in my court tomorrow, and able to speak.’

It was dark by the time Owen opened his hall door and crossed the room to hug Lucie as hard as he dared.

‘You are a welcome sight,’ she murmured, reaching for her cap, which he’d knocked back. ‘Oh, my love, what a horror. But Jasper will be fine. He will.’

Jasper sat by the fire in a high-backed chair, his feet propped up on a stool. He smiled at Owen. Phillippa was massaging one of his wrists. Alisoun sat beside him, and Edric nearby.

‘I see you are well attended,’ said Owen, unable to modulate his voice to hide his emotions. ‘I did not think to see — ’ He dropped his head, took a breath.

‘I wish I could have seen the three of you at Dame Lotta’s,’ said Jasper, already sounding stronger. ‘Did Osmund crawl?’

‘No, but he will find it difficult to talk or swallow for a while.’ Owen managed a grin.

‘So I helped?’

‘I doubt he would have felt confident enough to get drunk had you still been sneaking around.’

Jasper smiled, but quickly grew serious. ‘He said Dame Ysenda is dead.’

Owen shook his head. ‘He left Weston too soon to know she’d been found alive. She has survived to give witness against him.’

‘I’m glad she’s alive,’ said Jasper. ‘Hubert’s suffered enough.’

Lucie tugged Owen’s arm. ‘Come to the kitchen, my love. Gwenllian and Hugh will be so happy to see you.’

Owen accompanied her across the hall. In the space between the hall and kitchen doors, beneath the stairs, he paused. ‘He’s my son, there’s no question of that,’ he said. ‘When I thought he was dead — ’ His breath caught. ‘If Sir Baldwin hadn’t been there I would have thrust deep into Osmund’s heart and watched him bleed to death.’

Lucie pulled his face down to hers and kissed him long and hard. When she let him go, she said, ‘Come back to me now, my love. It is over. Your part is finished.’

He took her hand in his and breathed more easily. ‘It is. It is done.’

For George Hempe it had only begun. The bailiff’s court was crowded with people who suspected Osmund Gamyll of selling goods stolen from their homes and businesses, as well as the usual onlookers, curious what sort of heir to a knight of the realm would stoop to theft and murder merely to accumulate wealth. He judged that with so many already making claims there would be more to come, and in the interest of recovering as much as possible he postponed Osmund’s execution for a fortnight or longer — most likely he would be in the castle gaol until after the Yuletide. Archbishop Thoresby agreed to the delay.

His notoriety as the bailiff who’d scotched the thief brought him even more trade. He felt he was too busy to sleep. But even had it not been good for business, Hempe would not have regretted assisting Owen with the investigation, for he did not see how he might otherwise have begun his courtship of Lotta.