The Guilt of Innocents

One

The Benedictine Abbey of St Mary dominated the northern bank of the River Ouse just upriver from the city of York, and it also owned extensive lands throughout Yorkshire and elsewhere in the realm whose rents and crops supported the community of monks. Its staithe, or dock, at the foot of Marygate served as the hub for moving the abbey’s products, supplies, and personnel, as well as the frequent visitors both clerical and noble. A group of liveried bargemen operated the staithe, chosen for their strength and knowledge of the river and its moods, not for their education or piety.

At St Peter’s School, the song and grammar school of York Minster, Master John de York presided over twelve endowed choristers and at least sixty paying young scholars, many of whom lived in the Clee, a house owned by the minster although attached to the Almonry of St Mary’s Abbey in Marygate, not far from the Abbey Staithe. The high-spirited boys often tangled with the bargemen. The bargemen taunted the scholars for their privileged lifestyle and useless learning, and the boys retaliated by clambering about the landing place and sometimes onto the barges wreaking innocent havoc. Occasionally, the uneasy relationship erupted into violence …

As was his custom, Jasper de Melton had lingered in the classroom after the lessons ended for the day to copy an additional reading into his precious notebook of old parchment scraps that Captain Archer had bound for him. Master John hummed as he tidied the room, occasionally stealing a peek at Jasper’s work. The grammar master’s interest annoyed Jasper a little because he did not want to feel rushed. He’d make a mistake for sure, tired as he was by this time of day, and he hated scraping and recopying. That would be one less layer for a future reading. He sighed with relief when he came to the end of the brief passage. Even without the master he would have felt the urge to hurry this afternoon, for he wanted to accompany his fellow scholars to the Abbey Staithe.

Frosty air shocked him out of his late afternoon drowsiness as he pushed wide the door of St Peter’s School, and it momentarily killed his enthusiasm for the coming drama, an attempt by his fellows to recover a schoolmate’s scrip, or purse, from a less-than-honest abbey bargeman named Drogo who had just been seen back at the staithe. Jasper must head to the staithe now if he meant to participate, and then board the barges anchored there. The mere thought made him shrug up his shoulders to protect his neck and ears in anticipation of the cold — it was a week past Martinmas and winter had taken hold. He’d forgotten his cap this morning, and his hands, which stuck out of his sleeves, were already stinging from the icy air. He’d suddenly grown quite a bit. His foster mother Dame Lucie said that it was his recent burst of growth that caused his legs to ache at night, waking him, not unusual at the age of fourteen. A restless night was certainly the cause of his oversleeping this morning and then, in his hurry to be on time, forgetting his cap and gloves.

Jasper was glad to be back at the minster school among his friends — he enjoyed being caught up in the energy that bubbled up to the surface now and then, as it had today when the more senior boys heard that Drogo had been seen at the staithe. Timing was critical because Drogo frequently travelled up and down the Ouse piloting ships between York and the sea, so he might not stay long in the city. The older boys had quickly devised a plan to confront the man about Hubert’s scrip: the main body of scholars were to rush the bargemen and distract them while the older scholars dealt with Drogo.

Jasper wasn’t convinced that Hubert’s absence from school the past week had to do with the loss of his scrip. That had happened more than a fortnight earlier, and Hubert had attended class for a week afterwards. He knew that the lad had more on his mind than his lost scrip. In the autumn Jasper had come upon him behind the school, all curled into himself and weeping. Jasper had heard that the lad’s father was feared dead. Having lost his own father when younger than Hubert, Jasper understood the fear in the boy’s eyes when he loosened up and began to talk of his mother’s troubles with the farm, how suddenly they were poor. In Jasper’s opinion such a loss and the subsequent fear about the future were more likely to keep Hubert away from the classroom than would the loss of a scrip. Although if it had held money its recovery might comfort the lad a little.

Perhaps that was sufficient reason to help recover it, even though Jasper had promised the captain that he would not get involved in the skirmishes between the scholars and the bargemen. He was still debating whether to follow his fellows or to head straight home to the apothecary. He doubted he would contribute much as he was unfamiliar with the barges, but he knew he’d feel left out when the others talked about it afterwards. He was sympathetic to Hubert’s situation as well.

It was plain that he must quickly choose, for those leading the band of scholars were already out of sight. In fact, the light had faded enough that Jasper could see only the last few stragglers.

Surely he might be late to the apothecary this one afternoon. He’d been a diligent apprentice the past year, having withdrawn from school the previous autumn when Dame Lucie was injured in a fall and could not spare him from the apothecary — she was his master as well as his adoptive mother. Dame Lucie had regretted cutting short his education, so she’d worked to convince the guild to provide her a second apprentice in order that Jasper might complete his studies. A few months ago Edric had joined the household, an experienced apprentice a few years Jasper’s senior whose master had recently died. Edric could mind the shop.

By now his fellows were out of sight and it was a long way to the staithe — through the minster grounds to Petergate, out Bootham Bar and into the grounds of St Mary’s Abbey by the postern gate, and then out into Marygate and down to the landing. He shut the door behind him and took off into the fading light. Slipping occasionally on frozen mud, Jasper was breathing hard by the time he caught up with the last of the group at Bootham Bar, and his hands and ears were numb. He ignored his physical discomfort as he hurried with them across the abbey grounds, but that was just part of his discomfort now, as he noticed they were being joined by curious onlookers, adults, strangers, not their fellows. He was growing increasingly uneasy about what else might be happening, about what he might be heading into.

As shouts echoed from the staithe, he and the stragglers ran the last few yards, then slowed upon reaching the barrels and covered flats that had been offloaded from the barges. The long, flat-bottomed vessels were bobbing on the water with the movements of several dozen people darting about, shouting, waving arms. The fading light made it difficult to tell bargemen from the older boys at first, and Jasper thought he’d made a mistake in coming. Glancing around at the gathering crowd he saw fists clenched and heard tension in the voices muttering about privileged scholars and hard-working bargemen, poor lads defending their own and bullying staithe workers. This was growing into something much larger than merely recovering a friend’s purse.

‘How will we know if we come upon the bargeman who took Hubert’s scrip?’ asked one of Jasper’s companions.

He hesitated to respond, considering whether it would not be wise to make a run for home, but he resolved to stay — he was already here, and his reasons for wanting to help Hubert had not changed. ‘Ned said Drogo wears a green cap, has a much broken nose, and a tooth missing up front,’ Jasper said. Ned was one of the raid leaders.

‘Come on, then,’ cried one of the others, grabbing Jasper’s frozen hand.

They’d just stepped onto the nearest barge when someone crashed into Jasper, and the two went sprawling on the slippery wooden deck.

The human missile groaned as he sat up, rubbing his head. ‘I almost had him!’ It was Ned.

Jasper stood and brushed himself off. ‘Now what?’

Ned had pulled himself up and leaned out over the water to peer at the neighbouring barge. ‘I can’t see him now. I hope one of the others grabbed him. But I tell you, one look in that man’s face and I knew there’d be nothing left of value in that scrip. He has the eyes of a thief, mark me.’

‘The eyes of a sick man — that’s what I saw,’ said another lad. ‘He was pale as wax and stumbling like he was unwell or drunk.’

Jasper moved away from the argument that commenced, and in towards the action, remaining wary of sudden movements. He found several lads looking towards the next barge, which was wildly rocking.

‘I have it!’ someone cried from there. Voices rose in a victory shout. A splash inspired more shouting that gradually softened to anxious queries and responses.

‘Can you see him?’ a man shouted.

‘He’s gone under,’ cried another.

‘There he is, towards the stern,’ one of the boys called out.

‘I’ve lost him.’ The speaker’s voice cracked with defeat.

An icy blanket enveloped him, slaking the fire in his cheek, his neck, his arm. God be praised, Drogo thought, almost whimpering but knowing somehow even as confused as he was that he must not inhale. It did not matter that the current tumbled him for the water eased him, it smoothed away the pain, the guilt, the anger. Forgive me, O Lord, he prayed, and let me return to my Cissy and my daughters, more precious to me than gold or silver.

Jasper grabbed the elbow of his nearest fellow. ‘Who’s in the water?’

‘Drogo, the one who took Hubert’s scrip.’

‘Was he pushed?’ Jasper whispered. He could not imagine any of the older scholars taking such a risk.

‘I don’t know.’

God help him, Jasper prayed. Drogo had stolen a scrip, which to the thinking of his foster father, Captain Archer, was hardly a crime deserving death. The captain said a thief should be executed only if he’d also taken a life. Jasper didn’t understand how this evening’s worthy goal could have led to this horror.

After another splash, there was a hush, except for a whispered, ‘A swimmer’s gone in to help him.’

‘Someone fetch Brother Henry from the abbey,’ a man cried. Henry was the abbey infirmarian.

Before Jasper could think to go, he saw that two other students were already running from the staithe down Marygate. Jasper prayed for both the good Samaritan and Drogo as he followed the bargemen and scholars returning to the riverbank, all pushing, shoving, cursing as if frightened — as if as frightened as Jasper now was. The wind had picked up, adding the danger of fire to his worries. He watched a man cup his hand dangerously close to a burning taper as he lit a lantern held by his mate, cursing as the flame licked his hand. Several lanterns already illuminated the worried faces of the townsfolk, boys and bargemen who now gathered about the two men holding a rope attached to the rescuer, ready to assist him in fighting the current to the shore. Another stood close with a long pole.

‘Why don’t all bargemen learn to swim?’ one of Jasper’s companions asked.

‘Do you know how to swim?’ asked Jasper.

‘No, but the ferrywoman near our farm does. She says only a fool works on the Ouse without the knowledge.’ The boy was quiet a moment. ‘Can the Riverwoman swim?’

Jasper had never wondered that, but he could not imagine the midwife and healer Magda Digby giving in to the rushing water. The elderly woman was too wise to live on the river as she did if she feared it. ‘I’ve no doubt she can do anything she decides to do. Hush now. They’re bringing him out.’

As the swimmer climbed up the bank, the two on the rope dropped it to relieve him of his human burden.

‘Is he dead?’ folk asked as Drogo’s limbs gently swayed with the men’s gait.

They laid him face down, and the one who’d held the pole knelt beside him and went to work pressing the Ouse from Drogo’s lungs. When he coughed weakly the growing crowd cheered, but grew quiet as Brother Henry, the abbey infirmarian, pushed through to the prostrate form. After listening with bent head to the comments of the man working on Drogo, the monk turned to the crowd and asked them to pray for the man’s soul. Jasper knew Brother Henry, and he read resignation in his expression.

‘He is very weak,’ said Brother Henry.

‘We’ll carry him to the statue of the Virgin,’ said one of the abbey bargemen.

‘The Virgin! Yes, she saved my Tom,’ a woman cried.

It was custom to bring the victims of river accidents to the life-sized statue of the Blessed Mother that graced the main gate of St Mary’s, for she had worked many miracles. Jasper was glad someone had thought of that.

With Brother Henry solemnly leading the way, Jasper and his fellows, the bargemen, and the townsfolk all walked the short distance to the abbey gate. Drogo was laid before the Virgin on a pallet that had been brought out by abbey servants. Jasper found himself standing beside Master Nicholas Ferriby, the Vicar of Weston and Master of a small grammar school in the minster liberty. He’d offended the dean and chancellor of York Minster by locating it so close to their grammar school, the one Jasper attended. It did not seem to help that Master Nicholas was brother to one of their fellows, the keeper of the minster fabric. Jasper knew the Ferriby family because another brother, a merchant, was married to one of Dame Lucie’s closest friends.

Shaking his head, Master Nicholas said, ‘It is a sad afternoon’s business, young Jasper. I understand the pilot is dying.’

Jasper crossed himself. ‘He was not long in the water, but it’s so cold.’ He shivered at the thought of it.

A well-dressed young man joined them, though in truth he joined Master Nicholas for he did not seem to notice Jasper at all.

‘This will go ill with the dean and chancellor, Father Nicholas,’ said the newcomer in what seemed to Jasper a goading tone. ‘I pray none of your scholars were involved.’

‘They were not,’ Nicholas said with undisguised irritation. ‘What brings you to York, Master Osmund? I should think you’d be in Weston celebrating your father’s safe return.’

‘I’ve already toasted Sir Baldwin,’ said Osmund. ‘Why aren’t you tending your flock in Weston?’

Jasper recalled that Hubert’s father was fighting for a Sir Baldwin of Weston. ‘Did Hubert de Weston’s father return as well?’ he asked Nicholas.

The priest nodded and said quietly, ‘I pray that’s where the lad’s gone, to see his father.’

‘We should dine together while I’m in the city,’ said Osmund, ignoring Jasper.

Noticing that Brother Henry was alone despite the crowd of people clogging Marygate, Jasper pushed his way towards him in the hope of finding out more about Drogo’s condition. Brother Henry’s predecessor as infirmarian of St Mary’s, Brother Wulfstan, had been Jasper’s good friend, and through him he’d known Brother Henry since the monk’s novice days. It took him a little while to work through the gossiping, excited people.

Henry met Jasper’s greeting with a distracted, worried expression.

‘This is a terrible evening, terrible,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking of Captain Archer when you hailed me.’

Jasper glanced round. ‘The captain? I didn’t see him.’ What he did see was a man lying on the pallet, blankets and hides now wrapped about him like heavy winding sheets, his face the only part of him visible.

‘The captain’s not here,’ said Brother Henry. ‘I was considering whether to ask my lord abbot’s permission to seek the captain’s advice. I fear that what happened to this man was no accident.’

Owen Archer was captain of the archbishop’s guard and noted in the city for solving crimes for the archbishop.

‘Is Drogo still alive?’ Jasper asked, still staring at the body placed before the Blessed Mother as if an offering.

‘He is, God be praised, but I doubt he will be for long unless we move him in to the infirmary so that I might care for him.’ The servants who had brought out the pallet for Drogo waited nearby with poles ready to turn the pallet into a litter.

‘Benedicite, Jasper, Brother Henry.’

Abbot Campian’s arrival stirred them both to straighten up as if they’d been discovered at some mischief.

‘If the poor man dies I shall insist that the scholars of St Peter’s pay for his funeral mass and burial,’ said the abbot. ‘Perhaps that will put an end to their warfare.’ Campian believed order to be man’s greatest virtue, and so deplored the feud between the students and the bargemen.

Jasper felt his face grow hot under the abbot’s stern gaze. ‘We meant only to help one of our fellows.’ He felt unjustly accused.

‘I have heard the story,’ said the abbot. ‘Had you informed your schoolmaster of the boy’s loss he would have seen to it.’

Of course he would have. Jasper bowed his head, feeling more than a little foolish despite not having been involved in the planning. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Master John might intercede for them, and obviously it had not occurred to the older boys.

‘My Lord Abbot, if I might call your attention to the dying man.’ Henry drew the abbot towards Drogo. ‘Certain marks on his left cheek, near the ear, and his neck and hands suggest that he’d been engaged in a struggle before he fell into the water.’

‘I’d not heard of this,’ said Campian.

‘The wounds had been cleansed by the cold waters,’ said Henry.

‘Then this earlier struggle might be why he fell in?’ The abbot nodded to himself.

‘Perhaps,’ said Henry.

Jasper stepped closer to Drogo in the abbot’s shadow. Slashes, they looked like, made by a very sharp blade. ‘Perhaps this did not happen on the barge, my Lord Abbot,’ Jasper said, keeping his voice low. ‘One of my fellows said he’d looked ill when he arrived at the barges.’

‘Did you see him arrive?’ asked Campian.

Jasper shook his head.

Abbot Campian thanked Jasper, then took Brother Henry aside.

‘What are you suggesting?’ the abbot asked the infirmarian.

‘Perhaps this man had a falling out with someone else besides Hubert de Weston’s friends,’ said Henry loud enough that Jasper could hear him, ‘someone armed and far more aggressive than the boys.’

Campian frowned down at the ground. ‘Why then did he go to the barges, I wonder?’

‘He felt safe amongst his friends?’ Henry shrugged. ‘He might not have realised how badly injured he was, how weak.’

‘I’d thought it an unfortunate accident, but it certainly looks otherwise,’ said Campian. ‘Still, the lads should be taught a lesson.’

Sensing a disturbance behind him, Jasper glanced back. Master Nicholas Ferriby was making his way through the crowd towards Drogo. He bent close to the drowned man, whispering a prayer.

It was not Master Nicholas but a man close behind him and a little to one side who gasped and then cried out, ‘He bleeds!’

To Jasper’s astonishment he saw blood oozing from the wounds on the man’s face and neck. He glanced back up to see the schoolmaster’s reaction.

Master Nicholas looked towards the crowd with a puzzled frown and then down at Drogo. He staggered backwards with a cry. ‘Sweet Mary and all the saints!’ He crossed himself.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ a boy cried. ‘Master Nicholas drew blood from the corpse.’

His exclamation was repeated throughout the crowd accompanied by gasps and cries of dismay.

Nicholas turned to the young speaker, his eyes flashing in the lantern light. ‘I did nothing but pray for his soul.’

‘Drogo is not dead,’ Brother Henry loudly reminded them.

Abbot Campian stepped forward, and taking Nicholas by the elbow he guided him aside. ‘The crowd’s mood grows dangerous. I advise you to withdraw into the abbey close as soon as you can do so without notice,’ he said softly, though Jasper heard it, and apparently so did some of the monks who had drawn near, for they silently shifted just enough to give Master Nicholas cover in which to withdraw.

‘Am I to be a scapegoat for Master John’s scholars?’ Nicholas protested.

‘Accept my offer or be damned,’ hissed the abbot.

‘Forgive me, my Lord Abbot,’ Nicholas murmured, and with head lowered slipped away.

Abbot Campian turned to address the crowd. ‘This is no corpse,’ he said in an arrestingly authoritative voice. ‘This man yet lives.’

‘But he was not bleeding before Master Nicholas approached him,’ cried a woman.

‘His wounds were so chilled by the waters of the Ouse that the blood clotted,’ said Brother Henry. ‘We have managed to warm him enough so that it flows again.’

But the murmuring in the crowd was not friendly.

‘A corpse bleeds when the murderer is near,’ a man far back in the crowd shouted.

‘A corpse, perhaps,’ said Henry. ‘Not a living man.’

Abbot Campian put a hand on Henry’s arm. ‘I’ve sent for the bailiffs. I don’t like the temper of the crowd. Such confusion is a sign of trouble.’

‘God help us that the scholars’ charitable intention should turn so foul,’ said Henry.

‘Where is Master Nicholas, my Lord Abbot?’ a man asked much more loudly than necessary. Others echoed the question. There was much jostling, and angry words flew as people’s tempers rose.

Jasper recognised the speaker — he was frequently escorted from the York Tavern for drunkenness.

A bargeman spoke out. ‘The schoolmaster was not on the river when Drogo fell. Brother Henry is right, he was too cold at first for his wounds to bleed.’

Brother Henry knelt and gently cleaned Drogo’s face, then rose and quietly said, ‘My Lord Abbot, I would take him to the infirmary where he will be warmer, and send for Captain Archer to come look at his wounds.’

‘Why is that?’

‘The colour of the skin is not as it should be. I believe he was cut with a poisoned blade.’

The abbot paused for a heartbeat, then turned to Jasper. ‘Can you find the captain for us?’

With a nod, Jasper set out in the direction of the abbey gates, shivering now not only with the cold, but also about the miserable result of his fellows’ actions and the jagged tempers of the people.

Now Drogo whimpered in pain and cursed his mate for plucking him from the kind waters of the Ouse. He cursed him for bringing back the pain, the threads of fire that radiated ever farther out from his wounds, torturing him for the sins for which he’d already been shriven by God and the river. My girls — God protect my daughters and my wife.

Owen Archer had spent the afternoon in the barracks of Archbishop Thoresby’s guards with Alfred, his second in command. For almost eight years they had worked together protecting the archbishop and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, the north-western section of the city surrounding the archbishop’s palace, York Minster, and the school and residences connected to both. Owen’s duties had often been extended to include protecting other dignitaries who had asked for the archbishop’s protection — as the second most powerful representative of the Church in England and former Lord Chancellor of the realm, John Thoresby was a man of influence.

But even the powerful slow with age, and as Thoresby had been ailing for the past year he no longer travelled to Westminster or King Edward’s court, but rather spent his time now in Yorkshire. Today Owen and Alfred had been discussing the logistics of Thoresby’s imminent move to his palace of Bishopthorpe for Advent. In addition to his other duties, Owen was steward of Bishopthorpe; he had just returned from his monthly visit to the estate and was informing Alfred, who was to lead the half-dozen guards who would attend the archbishop, of changes, projects in progress, and new considerations for guarding the archbishop in his failing health.

Alfred, who had been frowning down at his hands and occasionally nodding, suddenly interrupted Owen’s monologue. ‘I don’t understand why His Grace wishes to bide at Bishopthorpe in this season. There’s such a wheezing in his chest, and that palace sits right on the Ouse, it’s damp and chill.’ Alfred shivered. ‘There will be flood waters soon, mark me. It’s no place for His Grace.’ He took off his cap, his pate shiny where it had once held a shock of straw-coloured hair, and scratched his scalp, leaving trails of reddened skin.

Owen agreed with Alfred; a mere fortnight past Thoresby had returned to the city saying he wished to escape the late autumn rains on the river; but he later confided that he could not bear the isolation of Bishopthorpe for long. ‘His Grace means by returning to Bishopthorpe to appease Dean John. They complain he’s spent too much time in the city of late.’

Although Thoresby was Archbishop of York, the dean and the chapter of canons were the administrators of the great cathedral and its properties, and his chancellor was in charge of the schools. They had become accustomed to little supervision by their archbishops and felt threatened by Thoresby’s frequent and extended residence in the city.

‘But His Grace has spent the better part of the year at Bishopthorpe,’ said Alfred.

‘Aye. It’s his frequent returns to the city they don’t like, no matter how brief. They claim folk are gossiping about how he distrusts them, though I’ve heard no such talk.’

‘Can’t they see he’s ill!’

‘Of course they see. Perhaps it’s just as well. In truth, he’s glad to escape the controversy over Master Nicholas Ferriby’s grammar school. Chancellor Thomas has threatened Nicholas with excommunication, Dean John supports the threat, and Nicholas’s brother Canon William has voiced his support — now they cannot understand why His Grace will not.’ Owen was glad of Thoresby’s stance, for his children’s nurse, Alisoun, was thriving in Ferriby’s school.

‘And no wonder His Grace won’t support their complaint,’ said Alfred, ‘excommunication for competing with the minster school? It’s daft. His brother William has no backbone.’

‘William’s reacting to the early rumours that he was protecting Nicholas,’ said Owen. ‘Their enemies said the Ferriby brothers were building power, that they meant to have Peter mayor and William dean.’ Owen and Lucie were close friends of Peter and Emma Ferriby, so they had heard much of the rumours when they were first spread about. Both Peter and William had tried to distance themselves from their brother Nicholas once it was clear he intended to stay in the liberty. The dean and chapter felt that over the years the chapter’s influence in the city had been chipped away by the mayor, council, and bailiffs, and the existence of competing schools in the city threatened the income from students’ fees that covered the upkeep of St Peter’s School and the master’s expenses. Although neither Peter nor William had high ambitions in the city they did not want to risk losing what comfortable success they enjoyed — Peter was a successful and prominent member of the Mercers Guild and William, as keeper of the minster fabric, held great responsibility for the upkeep of the magnificent cathedral and claustral buildings.

As for the archbishop’s support, Owen understood why the dean and chancellor might have assumed Thoresby’s cooperation. Five years earlier he had censored the opening of song schools in the city, but their purpose was ecclesiastical, not practical like a grammar school, and Thoresby now insisted the difference was everything. To Dean John and Chancellor Thomas it was another sign of the rising power of the York laity.

‘In the long run it would be far more comfortable for everyone, particularly Master Nicholas, if he moved his school out of the minster liberty,’ Owen said. ‘Surely — ’

A banging on the door interrupted him. He opened it with such a jerk that Jasper almost fell into the room.

‘What is it, lad?’ Owen asked as his foster son slumped down onto a bench and fought to catch his breath. ‘Alfred, is there anything to drink?’

Alfred picked up a jug on a windowsill and shook it. ‘Aye, though it’s only well water,’ he said as he poured a cup.

Jasper took it with thanks and drank it down.

‘A bargeman fell into the river and almost drowned.’ Jasper paused to burp. ‘They took him to the Virgin at the abbey gate. As Master Nicholas approached him he began to bleed, and people are saying he’s a murderer, though Drogo — the bargeman — isn’t dead. Brother Henry would have you look at the wounds because he thinks they are poisoned.’

‘Whose wounds?’ Owen asked.

‘Drogo’s,’ said Jasper.

‘Who went in the water?’ Alfred asked as he refilled Jasper’s cup.

‘Drogo, the pilot, the one we were looking for.’ Jasper drank down the second cup.

‘Are his wounds mortal?’ Owen asked.

Jasper shook his head. ‘Slits on his face, neck and hands. They didn’t look deep. But if the blade was poisoned …’ he raised his eyebrows.

That would make all the difference. Owen nodded, and was about to remind Jasper that he’d promised not to participate in the battles between the scholars and the bargemen — the latter being a rough lot — but he decided to hold his tongue until he heard more. ‘Why were you looking for him?’ he asked.

Jasper pressed his hands to his eyes and shook his head slowly, as if wondering that himself. ‘We wanted to recover a scrip that Hubert de Weston lost a fortnight ago. This Drogo had grabbed it and then refused to return it.’

A bargeman teaching a boy a lesson. It seemed innocent enough. ‘That’s all?’

‘Aye. But none of us would attack him with a poisoned blade.’

No, Owen did not think that likely. ‘How was Master Nicholas involved?’ he asked.

Jasper shook his head. ‘He wasn’t. Drogo was warm at last and the bleeding started again. But the people wanted to blame him. Is it such a terrible thing he did, to open a school in the minster liberty?’

‘No it is not,’ said Owen, ‘and I can’t think why most folk would care one whit about Nicholas Ferriby. Unless there’s a rumour I’ve not heard. I don’t know that I’d risk my soul’s salvation for the prestige of teaching in the liberty. If they say he’s up to something more than education …’

‘Has someone gone for the bailiffs?’ Alfred asked.

Jasper nodded. ‘And Abbot Campian told Master Nicholas to go into the abbey grounds to escape the crowd. They’ve taken Drogo to the abbey infirmary.’

Owen nodded. ‘The abbot is a sensible man. You look half-frozen yourself, Jasper. Go straight home. Tell your mistress what has happened and where I am.’ He shook his head as he saw the argument form in Jasper’s eyes. ‘You’ll hear all that I learn. Now go. I am off to Brother Henry.’

Shrugging his disappointment, Jasper slumped out of the barracks.

Lucie and Owen’s house sat on the corner of St Helen’s Square and Davygate, next to Wilton’s Apothecary, the shop Lucie carried on from her first husband, Nicholas. When he was alive and then when she and Owen were first wed the building that housed the shop had also been her home. Her father, whose manor of Freythorpe Hadden was in the countryside south of York, had purchased the large house across the garden so that he might spend more time in the city with his grandchildren, and on his death he’d left the town house as well as the manor to Lucie. It was a beautiful home in which to raise her children and provide a comfortable home for her aged aunt, Phillippa, who’d been crippled in body and mind by a palsy. Joining the gardens had allowed Lucie to grow a greater variety of materia medica for the apothecary. All in all she felt very blessed in her marriage, her children, her career, her life — and especially this healthy pregnancy.

The afternoon light faded quickly at this time of year in the North, and though the hall boasted casement windows looking out onto the extensive garden Lucie was glad of the light from the hall fire and several wall sconces. Phillippa napped by the fire near the table at which Lucie was working on the shop accounts. Alisoun Ffulford, the children’s nursemaid, had just risen from her seat across the way and lit an oil lamp, placing it beside Lucie — unasked for.

‘Bless you, Alisoun,’ said Lucie, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice, for she knew the young woman would take it as a subtle criticism.

It had taken some time, but Lucie had ceased fretting over the volatility of Alisoun’s moods, having witnessed how the young woman struggled to smooth them out. Certainly Jasper seemed immune to Alisoun’s moods except when she snapped at him — for he greatly admired her. Lucie suspected that Alisoun felt likewise about Jasper. She was consistent with the children, firm but kind and always ready to sing or read to them. It was in the idle moments, especially after Gwenllian and Hugh were abed, that Alisoun fought her devils, her resentment of the kin who were her guardians and her frustration with Magda Digby’s elusiveness. She’d wished to apprentice to Magda, but so far she’d had little opportunity to work beside the midwife and healer.

Lucie had never expected Alisoun to be so long a part of her household — she’d been Gwenllian and Hugh’s nurse for more than a year. Her understanding had been that the girl was temporarily assisting her after she’d fallen and miscarried and suddenly needed more help in the house. Indeed, at the moment Lucie shared some of Alisoun’s impatience with Magda. When Lucie had realised she was again with child she’d told Magda that it was time to replace Alisoun with a wet nurse. Magda had assured her she had already begun to look for one, and more recently that she had someone in mind. Yet not a word of Alisoun’s replacement had come in many a week. Lucie was quite satisfied with Alisoun most of the time, but she agreed with Owen that even if a wet nurse was not required, Alisoun was still too inexperienced to take on the care of a newborn in addition to Hugh and Gwenllian. Now, with only a month until she delivered, Lucie was growing anxious about the arrangements.

But it was not her wont to complain these days, so happy was she that she’d conceived again. The loss of the baby she’d carried the previous year had sent her into such a sinful despair that she had feared her penance would be to bear no more children. Then just as she’d set her mind to being content with Gwenllian and Hugh, her courses had stopped. Still she had feared saying anything to Owen or to Magda. It was Owen who had coaxed her to talk of it, noticing with delight her swelling breasts.

‘I fear to speak such hope,’ she’d whispered in the darkness of the night.

‘Hope, my love?’ Owen had said. ‘You are much farther along than hope might bring you. Would you not like to make a special offering in the minster for your safe delivery?’

Owen had known just what to say. Lucie did not think any woman could have a better husband.

This evening Alisoun’s woes concerned her grammar master. She was sitting at the hall table practising her letters on a slate while Lucie worked on the shop accounts. Kate, the cook and housemaid, had Gwenllian and Hugh in the kitchen feeding them an early supper.

‘If it were only Master Nicholas’s school being in the minster liberty I would not worry so,’ Alisoun said, sitting stiffly straight as was her habit of late, ‘but I’m certain that some of the students will gossip about the beliefs he holds that border on heresy.’

‘Heresy? Master Nicholas?’ This was the first Lucie had heard of heretical teachings. Word of this could get him stripped of his parish of Weston as well as his little school here in York.

It had been Owen’s inspiration to send Alisoun to Master Nicholas’s school. He’d noticed how closely she watched Lucie writing up the shop accounts and how eagerly she asked Jasper about his lessons. Owen’s guilt over his insistence that she leave her post when the baby was born was assuaged by her obvious appreciation of the gift. She was careful to fit her school work in around her duties in the household. She would be horribly disappointed if her grammar master brought ruin upon himself by insisting on keeping his school where it was — or, even worse, teaching heresy to his students. York had few good schools that accepted girls. How awful if Alisoun lost both her job and her school at the same time.

What a wealth of worry because of the girl’s chatter, Lucie thought, and in her condition she was a consummate worrier. She wished Alisoun would quietly work at her letters or at least take up a happier topic. Or that Aunt Phillippa would wake from her doze by the fire and join them. Lucie looked forward to the end of the children’s meal when Kate handed them over to Alisoun and she would be busy once more.

Relief came from an unexpected quarter. Lucie’s good friend Bess Merchet, mistress of the York Tavern just beyond the apothecary, knocked on the street door and then opened it to announce herself. She entered the hall before Lucie was on her feet. Her ample curves and the pale red hair that escaped her cap belied her age. She breathed life into a room merely by entering it.

‘Sit, my friend,’ Bess said as she hugged Lucie, always the hostess even in another’s house. The ribbons on her cap quivered as she glanced around the room. ‘Where are your men?’

‘Owen and Jasper are not yet home,’ said Lucie. ‘Edric is in the shop.’

‘Pity.’ Bess eased herself down across from Alisoun. To Lucie, at the head of the table, she said, ‘Your new apprentice is a comely lad.’

Lucie laughed. ‘Trust you to notice, Bess.’

‘Edric is no lad,’ Alisoun blurted. ‘He’s eighteen.’

Her outburst and its accompanying deep blush surprised Lucie. Edric had not seemed to her a young man who would catch a young woman’s interest. But considering him now, she realised he was comely in a delicate way, though part of that impression might be his shy demeanour. Still, she’d thought Alisoun preferred Jasper.

Bess leaned forward on her strong forearms to peer at what Alisoun was doing. ‘I see you are practising your letters. What a fortunate day it was for you when you joined this household, eh? And when Nicholas Ferriby opened his school. Let us pray that the dean and chancellor hear nothing of your grammar master’s peculiar ideas about the bible being translated into the common language or, even worse, how unacceptably wealthy the canons of York Minster are.’

So these were his heretical ideas. He sounded like a follower of John Wycliff, an English priest both famous and infamous. Lucie’s stomach burned, and she took a slow, deep breath for the baby. With the dean and chapter already feeling threatened by the laity they would certainly pounce on the heretical idea of lay people bypassing their priests by reading and interpreting the bible for themselves.

‘Master Nicholas’s ideas are tavern talk?’ Alisoun asked in amazement.

‘On dull evenings,’ Bess said with a wink. ‘But tonight people have something of more substance on their minds — or less, depending on your taste. Have you heard that Drogo the steersman almost drowned today?’

‘Who is he?’ Lucie asked.

‘He’s a pilot on the Ouse?’ Alisoun asked. ‘I should think they were often nearly drowned.’

‘That is so.’ Bess crossed her arms, relaxing. ‘But not from the barges anchored at the Abbey Staithe, and not because one of the scholars of St Peter’s School pushed him overboard.’ She grinned at the surprise in both her listeners’ eyes. ‘Let us pray that he lives, or Captain Archer will be sent out to find the lad who pushed him in.’

‘I pray Jasper was not among them,’ Lucie said, worried because he was not yet home, though she could not imagine him doing such a thing. But neither could she imagine his fellows pushing a man overboard, and said so.

‘Ay, but this steersman had kept a scrip one of the scholars lost in their last skirmish onboard the barges,’ said Bess.

‘Jasper told me about that,’ said Alisoun. ‘Hubert de Weston. He’s a charity student at St Peter’s this year. His father was in a siege in France — all of our countrymen died there. The Spanish devils got them. Master Nicholas told us about it.’

‘La Rochelle?’ Bess asked.

Alisoun nodded. ‘Jasper said that Hubert was very upset when he lost the scrip.’

Lucie vaguely remembered hearing something about the incident from Jasper. ‘It sounds as if the lad can ill afford a loss like that. But why didn’t the boys send Master John to speak to the man?’

‘Why would they think he’d still have the scrip?’ Bess asked. ‘Sounds to me as if they just wanted to punish him, and it went much further than they’d intended.’

‘You keep saying “they”,’ said Lucie. ‘So it was not Hubert who pushed the man into the river?’

Bess hesitated, frowning as she considered all she had heard. ‘Everyone speaks as if the lad wasn’t there.’

‘What will they do to the boys?’ Alisoun asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lucie, distracted by her concern. ‘Owen might know what — ’ She paused, hearing the street door.

Jasper stepped into the hall, red-faced from the cold outdoors. He took in the occupants of the room and then took a step backwards as if wanting to retreat. Lucie could imagine his discomfort with all their eager eyes fastened on him, and him most likely tired and hungry.

‘You’re just the man we need,’ Bess said. ‘Come, sit beside me.’ She patted the bench on which she sat.

Jasper shuffled towards the table with a glance towards Lucie that appealed for help.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Kate is feeding the little ones and I’m sure she’ll give you something. You’ve only to go ask her.’

But Bess was not to be cheated of hearing an account of the excitement from a potential witness. ‘Alisoun, why don’t you see to some food for Jasper while he rests his growing bones beside me?’

Alisoun grudgingly pushed herself away from the table and rose.

At that moment, Edric stepped into the hall through the garden door. Throwing a smile his way, Alisoun stepped quite cheerfully towards the doorway in which he stood, brushing against him as she slipped out to the kitchen.

Edric, for his part, did not turn to watch Alisoun depart, but was already bobbing his head in greeting to Lucie, Bess, and Jasper.

‘There’s much talk of someone almost drowning,’ he said with excited delight as he took the seat Alisoun had vacated. ‘Do you think Captain Archer will be the one to catch the guilty one?’

‘I pray that he isn’t,’ said Lucie. She wanted the baby to be welcomed by both its parents. ‘Was the shop busy this afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ said Edric. ‘The weather has folk sniffing and coughing, and their bones aching from the damp cold. I shut the shop to come eat something, but I promised several folk they might return later for their physicks. Why don’t you want Captain Archer to search for the one who pushed the pilot, Mistress?’

‘Because it’s dangerous work and keeps him away from home,’ Jasper snapped.

Edric blushed. ‘Oh. Of course.’

Bess glanced towards Lucie, lifting her eyebrows in curiosity. Lucie noticed, but did not meet her friend’s eyes, not wanting to irk either of her apprentices. Jasper had appeared so glad of Edric’s presence at first, but gradually he’d begun to behave as if he resented him, and that resentment seemed to have grown stronger and stronger, for no cause apparent to Lucie. Edric worked hard and deferred to Jasper’s long experience in the shop while also sharing the things he had learned from his former master. Now she wondered whether Alisoun was the thorn. That would be a great pity, for there was no remedying that sort of rivalry.

Still eyeing Edric, Jasper said, ‘You would not be smiling had you seen the man pulled from the water.’

‘Were you there?’ Edric’s eyes were alight.

Lucie suspected that he had no idea how Jasper felt about him.

‘Yes.’ Jasper turned to Lucie. ‘The captain has gone to the abbey infirmary to see the man’s wounds.’

Lucie inwardly groaned — Owen was involved.

‘Wounds?’ Bess murmured. ‘I hadn’t heard of wounds.’

‘Do tell us what you saw, Jasper,’ said Edric.

Jasper loudly sighed as he raked his straight, flaxen hair from his forehead. ‘There was a crowd, and I saw little. I only heard that Drogo had gone into the river. I did not see him until he was pulled out.’

Lucie wondered whether had Jasper not been there Owen might have avoided becoming involved. She wished the lad had kept his promise to stay out of the skirmishes between the scholars and bargemen.

Alisoun had returned with a tray of food, and cups for both young men.

‘So what of these wounds?’ Bess asked.

‘Someone had cut him on the face and neck, but most people did not see the cuts until they began to bleed.’ Jasper glanced at Alisoun and sat up straighter when he found her eyes on him. ‘Unfortunately Master Nicholas had just approached Drogo when his wounds began to bleed. The crowd began murmuring that he was a murderer.’

‘Heaven help us,’ whispered Lucie. ‘Why him?’

‘Because he was there when they saw the blood,’ said Jasper. ‘By then everyone was cold and tired and ripe for trouble. They’d been pushed around and their feet had been stepped on and their stomachs were growling. Rumours spread that didn’t need to make any sense once the people were ready to explode. So when they saw the blood I wasn’t surprised they cried out that Master Nicholas was a murderer even though Drogo’s still alive.’

‘My grammar master would never hurt anyone!’ Alisoun cried.

‘They’ve already hanged him in their hearts,’ said Bess, ‘especially Drogo’s fellow bargemen. They protect their own and they’re not gentle about it.’

All at the table crossed themselves, and grew quiet.

‘I did hear some good news,’ said Jasper, smiling at Lucie. ‘Hubert’s father and his lord are safely home in Weston.’

‘God be praised,’ said Lucie.

Later, after Edric and Jasper had returned to the shop and Alisoun had retired with the children, Bess said to Lucie, ‘I thought Jasper was for the monastery. Did his calling die with Brother Wulfstan?’

‘He still speaks of it, but now it is usually as a threat when he feels unappreciated.’ Lucie smiled, remembering how she’d mourned that such a handsome young man would close himself off from the world. ‘I have some doubt that he has a true vocation.’

‘Not with the way he looks at Alisoun,’ said Bess.

Indeed. ‘This evening it appeared as if her heart lies elsewhere,’ said Lucie. ‘I am both relieved and sorry for that. Poor Jasper.’

‘Aye, but she would be a difficult partner, wilful and moody.’

‘He sees none of that. But what do you think of Edric’s behaviour? I didn’t notice his eyes lingering on her.’

Bess shook her head. ‘No, they linger on his mistress. And don’t pretend to me that you’ve not seen that.’

Of course Lucie had noticed, and God help her but in her clumsy stage of pregnancy she enjoyed the flattery, though she took care to discourage it and keep Edric focused on his work. ‘He is under my roof, in my protection. I do not allow myself to fret about it, and Owen is blind to it — at least he seems to be. Faith, he sees little of Edric, which is for the best.’ In fact it felt to Lucie that Owen saw little of her, which was not for the best. She did wish he were not away so often, that Thoresby did not rely on him so much. When Lucie had been pregnant with Gwenllian, their firstborn, Owen had taken pains to tell her how beautiful she looked, how she still stirred his desire, how excited he was about the life they had begun. Now he seemed merely worried about her health and relieved when she reassured him that she felt well.

Smiling, Bess patted Lucie’s hand. ‘Owen would understand, I think. Edric is comely, but to his elders he’s coltish, young and awkward.’ She tidied her cap. ‘Speaking of your handsome husband, I dare not linger until he returns. I’ve already stayed away from the tavern longer than is wise.’

‘God go with you, my friend. I pray the tavern is quiet.’

Bess chuckled. ‘If I thought it would be quiet I’d feel free to bide with you a while longer. The customers will be eager to recount what they saw and heard at the staithe and the abbey gate over and over, and it will take several tankards for most of them.’

Lucie walked Bess to the door and watched her turn towards St Helen’s Square. She felt restless now, not at all in the proper temper to work on the accounts. In the kitchen, she found Kate drowsing beside the hearth. She thought of her apprentices working into the evening. Jasper’s day had been long already, and Edric had been alone in the shop for long stretches. They might welcome her help for a little while.

She slipped past Kate and, taking an old cloak from a hook by the door, went out into the garden. Breathing in deeply, she felt the crisp air begin to revive her spirits. No wonder Magda advised her to walk outside as much as she found comfortable. She took the path through the garden to the apothecary. She found Edric in the workshop, hands on hips, considering an assortment of jars, a scale, and a mortar and pestle.

‘Dame Lucie, what a blessing that you’ve come.’ He drew up a stool for her at the work table.

‘Are you in need of my advice?’ she asked as she took a seat.

‘I am. I’m mixing a headache powder for the Master of St Leonard’s, but I’ve just noticed that there are three different mixtures for him.’

Sir Richard de Ravenser, the archbishop’s nephew, suffered from a variety of head complaints, varying in intensity. ‘How did his servant describe his condition?’

Edric made a face. ‘It was not his servant.’

‘His clerk Douglas?’

Edric nodded. ‘He’s threatened to return before I close up.’

Lucie thought it was the first sarcasm she’d heard from her new apprentice.

‘Douglas is an unpleasant man in the best of times,’ she said, ‘but when Sir Richard is ailing he’s desperate and so even worse than usual. How did he describe his master’s condition?’

‘Sir Richard is blinking against the light and wants nothing to eat,’ said Edric.

Lucie nodded. ‘Poor Sir Richard, that is his worst. Make him the third one, with the sleeping draught. I’d forgotten he’s been away, to court. I’m not surprised he used all he had and needs more. Double the recipe.’

She reached for a jar of sufficient size and felt Edric step close, his hands ready to catch her by her swollen waist if she stumbled. She was flustered by the scent of him, the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Perhaps he was merely concerned for a mother-to-be, not wooing her; in fact, that is surely what it must be. He had no doubt heard that she’d lost her last child in a fall. Turning round and handing him the jar, she said, ‘You are kind, Edric, but you must not fuss over me. After all, I am your master.’ She said it with a smile.

He blushed and moved aside. ‘I meant no disrespect, Mistress.’

‘I doubt you did, Edric.’ Perhaps she needn’t have said anything, but if it had flustered her what might he have felt. He must learn propriety. ‘Do not make Douglas wait,’ she reminded him, then moved on into the shop to assist Jasper.

She was glad to find him intent on listening to a customer’s lamentations regarding his bowels. Not that the subject was pleasant, but Jasper seemed himself, as if he’d already shrugged off the event on the river.

Later, back by the fire in the hall, Lucie remembered her apprentice’s gesture and wondered whether he understood the difference between feeling protective of a woman and feeling attracted to her. He was so young, so earnest — so charming. She knew that it was just such a complication that worried some of the guild members about her being a master apothecary, with male apprentices. Most likely because Jasper was her adopted son, he’d never seemed confused about his relationship with her. But Edric — she was unsure how to know whether she was reading too much into his behaviour or not enough. After all, Bess had noted it. That worried Lucie. But she need not fear that Owen would notice. She wished he were less protective of her and more flirtatious and affectionate. She felt huge and unlovely. A passionate kiss would go a long way towards brightening her spirit.