The Guilt of Innocents

Two

The near drowning and a priest and schoolmaster suspected by the gossips of attempted murder brought many to the York Tavern that evening. Bess’s husband Tom growled about her long absence when she returned from Lucie’s house.

‘You’d be more than a little angry if I’d disappeared just as half the city arrived thirsty and cranky with frostbitten fingers and toes,’ he grumbled.

She hugged him, and as she stepped back noted his bemused expression. A hug was the last thing he’d expected from her. She was suddenly poignantly aware of his sagging jowls and swollen eyelids and thanked God he came from a long-lived family.

‘The fire’s smoking,’ she said. ‘See to that while I fill tankards.’

He nodded and pushed a pitcher towards her. ‘It’s plain I’ll be brewing again this week.’

Bess noticed a pair she knew to be abbey bargemen in the corner and made her way towards them in the hope they might be in a mood to talk. Heads bowed, they seemed like two monks in church this evening, quiet and solemn-faced.

‘Have you news of the pilot?’ she asked as she stood over them unnoticed, another clue to their mood.

Bart shook his shaggy head, and as he raised his tankard for a refill he surprised Bess with such a grief-stricken look that she almost spilled some of Tom’s best ale.

‘You are good friends with the man who almost drowned?’

‘My wife and I are godparents of his lasses,’ he said. ‘I was the one to tell his good wife of the accident. I had to repeat it because she just couldn’t believe what I was saying, and then she screamed and frightened the little ones. I pray he recovers. I’ve got a knot in my belly that all the ale in York won’t loosen.’ He took a long drink.

It wouldn’t be for lack of trying, Bess thought as she made sympathetic noises.

‘Had he been but a little later returning today it wouldn’t have happened,’ said the other.

‘Aye.’ Bart nodded. ‘Hal’s right. He came just before those cursed scholars. Pampered pets.’

Hal winced at his friend’s words. ‘I don’t think we can really blame them,’ he said. ‘Drogo didn’t look right when he walked up to me. He was rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t see clear. I think there was blood on his hands. He asked me for some water. By the time I fetched it, he was in the river.’ He crossed himself.

‘Blood on his hands?’ Bess thought that significant. ‘But you aren’t certain?’

Hal held up his own hands. ‘We can never get off all the pitch or the river filth.’

It looked as if all the creases on his hands were picked out in black, as well as the greater part of the joints. ‘I see,’ said Bess.

‘Those scholars are still the ones pushed him in,’ Bart growled.

‘We don’t know that,’ Hal maintained. ‘If Drogo was sickening, a nudge might have sent him in, the barges were rocking so with all the folk moving about. I’m not easy blaming the lads.’

Bart grunted.

‘What if someone in the city is after bargemen, and not just Drogo?’ Hal added, frowning down at his tankard, then up at Bart.

‘Why would that be?’ Bess asked.

Hal shrugged. ‘Why Drogo?’

Bart snorted. ‘That’s what makes it plain the scholars did it. They’re angry about his keeping the scrip. He was a fool to do that. Why would he think the lad carried anything of worth in it?’

‘Because he carried it with him that day?’ The words were out before Bess knew it. But if she did say so herself, it was unusual for a lad to go about wearing a scrip.

Hal held her gaze. ‘I’d not thought of that. But now you mention it, it is odd.’

‘If I have any more thoughts, I’ll let you know,’ said Bess. She leaned down to Hal and added in a low voice, ‘Watch your friend. I want no rowdiness tonight. Folk need to feel safe here.’

‘I’ll clear him out soon,’ Hal promised. ‘He’ll not wake happy as it is.’

As Bess moved on she tucked away the fact that Drogo had been thirsty and perhaps bleeding already when he’d arrived at the staithe, and the question of what Hubert de Weston had carried in his scrip. She could not follow the idea now for she needed full use of her wits to keep tab of how much of what folk were eating and drinking. Tragedy was good for business, as ever.

A man moved out from the shadows, blocking Owen’s access to the abbey infirmary. Owen cursed silently; when he’d entered the abbey grounds through the postern gate he’d thought he was alone. Drawing out his dagger — for it might be the would-be murderer intent on finishing his work, Owen called out, ‘Who goes there?’

The man moved closer so that Owen could see his hawk-nosed face. ‘It’s George Hempe.’

Relieved, Owen said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Hempe was a city bailiff, and the very one Owen would have sent for. He’d disliked Hempe until they had been thrown together in an investigation the previous year and he’d learned that the man’s intentions were good despite his stubborn and brusque manner, that he earnestly wished to bring criminals to justice. Bailiffs usually saw their duties as keeping the immediate peace, not preventing future trouble. Hempe was not so short-sighted.

‘Have you seen the pilot?’ Owen asked.

‘I had a glimpse of him as they carried him into the abbey grounds. But that is all. I’m not as welcome in here as you are. I can tell you he looked near death.’

‘How could you not be welcome? Were you not sent for?’

Hempe laughed. ‘I was, yes, but as soon as he saw me Abbot Campian made certain I understood that the man had fallen from the abbey staithe, not the city staithe, though it was possible he’d been attacked in the city. I’d been called upon to keep the peace among the city folk, not to interfere in abbey concerns. He sent for you as well?’

‘Yes. I might have avoided it, but my son Jasper was in the crowd of scholars at the staithe.’

‘Has Jasper an explanation of what happened?’

Owen was shaking his head as they came upon the outcast of the evening, Nicholas Ferriby.

‘Captain Archer, Master Bailiff, I must speak with you.’ The schoolmaster’s deep voice trembled. ‘I am condemned of a crime that did not happen.’

‘Calm yourself,’ said Owen. ‘From what I’ve heard you did nothing wrong tonight.’

‘But the crowd out on Marygate,’ Nicholas gestured towards the abbey gate, ‘they accused me. Their voices were so angry. I wasn’t at the barges, Captain. I don’t know why they would even connect me with that man.’ He paused to catch his breath.

‘You are safe here in the abbey grounds,’ said Hempe.

Owen was impatient to move on, but he could imagine how unsettled the man must feel. ‘Some quiet prayer in the abbey church will calm you, Master Nicholas. Now I fear I must leave you. I’ve been summoned to the infirmary.’

‘Why?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To see Drogo’s wounds.’

‘The wounds — they complicate the story,’ said Hempe, considering Master Nicholas. ‘You swear you had not been seen with Drogo earlier in the afternoon?’

‘I swear!’ Nicholas cried, then groaned. ‘Even you?’

‘You are not in danger here,’ said Owen, shaking his head at Hempe to quiet him. He had no time to calm the schoolmaster. ‘Abide in the hospitium tonight, Master Nicholas.’

‘By morning the crowd will have forgotten you,’ said Hempe.

‘I pray you are right,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what if the man dies?’

‘Then we have much work to do,’ said Owen. ‘I must pass now.’

The schoolmaster stepped aside. ‘I shall go pray for his recovery.’

‘And I’ll see that the crowd has dispersed,’ said Hempe.

Inside the warmly lit infirmary, Owen found Brother Henry bent over an ailing monk, and he left him in peace for a moment. Scanning the room for Drogo, he was startled by memories. The hanging herbs, tidy rows of pallets, indeed the smell of the room reminded him of many visits with Brother Wulfstan. Owen had seldom come here since his friend’s death three years earlier. Brother Henry was capable, but not gifted like his predecessor; neither Lucie nor Owen came to him for advice.

‘Drogo lies over near the brazier,’ Henry softly called out.

Owen pulled himself back into the present and noticed the man now, or the shape of him beneath the blanket. Henry joined him.

‘He is dead?’ Owen asked.

Henry nodded and then crossed himself. ‘He died just a little while ago. I waited to move him to a more public place until you’d seen him.’

‘Did he ever wake?’

‘No. He made mewling sounds towards the end, as if in pain but too weak to cry out.’

‘That doesn’t sound like drowning,’ Owen said. ‘But a poisoned blade — that is no sudden quarrel but deliberate murder.’

Henry bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘The devil is loose in the city.’

‘The method is only too human,’ said Owen. ‘Let me see him.’

Henry uncovered Drogo’s head, then drew back the blanket to expose his right hand. The skin on his face already looked waxy and slightly grey, though around the cuts it was much darker and there was a trace of crust that did not look like a scab. It was too small a sample for either Owen or Lucie to detect the presence of poison, too little to smell or taste.

‘He tried to protect his face,’ Owen noted.

Henry nodded. ‘That is what I thought. The slits must have stung, but I wouldn’t think they were terribly painful. I suppose that’s why he went to the barges and not home to clean the wounds. What do you think?’

‘I think his attacker was confident of the poison. Depending on what it was, Drogo might have sought relief in the river as the pain worsened.’

‘May God grant him peace,’ said Henry.

Owen released Drogo’s hand. He crossed himself and said a prayer for the pilot’s soul. ‘Did you know him?’

Henry muted a sneeze with his hand. ‘A little. I’d spoken to him at the staithe now and then. He seemed a quiet man, though I heard murmurs tonight that he was too ready with his fists when drunk.’

‘That is not an unusual trait in our fellow men.’ Owen noticed lines of weariness encircling the infirmarian’s eyes and mouth despite his youth. ‘You found no other marks on his body?’

‘This bruise.’ Henry touched a faint discolouration high on the man’s left arm. ‘I thought it might be where his rescuer clutched him.’

It was the size of a man’s hand. ‘You may be right. Anything else?’

Henry shook his head as he tried to cover a yawn, but his exhaustion won.

Owen empathised. ‘You are already weary, and I expect you have a long evening ahead of you. I’ll not keep you long. Have you had much illness here?’

Henry shook his head as he tucked his hands in the opposite sleeves and moved away from Drogo. ‘I made a nettle draught for myself yesterday that was far too strong, and then I could not sleep.’

‘Ah, the healer has no time to be ill.’ Lucie often pushed herself far past signs of exhaustion.

‘I don’t think of it as illness,’ said Henry. ‘My sneezing upset my patients. I am accustomed to fits of sneezing after mixing some powders. The nettle quiets it. But I was distracted while measuring the draught. Brother Paolo was …’ His voice trailed off and he frowned down at his sandals. ‘He’s grown wicked in his illness.’ Glancing up at Owen, Henry blushed.

Owen tried to erase his grin. ‘Pleasuring himself?’

‘How did you guess?’ asked Henry as he averted his eyes.

Owen found it difficult not to laugh outright, imagining the monk distracted by a vigorously fluttering blanket, or startled by the old monk crying out in pleasure. ‘I’ve seen it in the camps, men comforting themselves, taking heart from a healthy response.’ Owen shrugged. ‘Of course it is more appropriate for soldiers than for monks.’

‘It is a sin regardless,’ Henry said sternly, his face very red.

Owen had forgotten Henry’s primness. ‘I pray you forgive me, Brother Henry. I should not have spoken so boldly.’ He searched for another topic, having no cause to offend the monk. ‘Warn those keeping vigil with the body that Drogo’s murderer is abroad. I am most concerned about his family, if he had one.’

Henry quickly regained his composure. ‘He had a wife and two daughters, I believe. They are waiting in the chapel with several of our brothers. I must get word to them of his death.’ He crossed himself. ‘I shall warn the others of the danger. Did you hear about Master Nicholas Ferriby being accused of the murder even before Drogo died?’

Owen nodded. ‘Jasper told me. Indeed, Master Nicholas accosted me outside your door. He fears for his life. The man’s death will be a blow to him.’

‘It was his misfortune to approach Drogo when he did, and someone saw a chance to stir them to violence. They will forget him tomorrow.’

‘You will offer him a bed for the night?’

‘I would have thought he’d bide with his brother William, but I suppose they are at odds. Abbot Campian suggested that he take refuge here, so I’ve no doubt he is arranging a bed for him. I would guess he’ll be off to Weston as soon as he’s able.’

‘That depends on whether he’s willing to repay the parents of his scholars. They have already paid a year’s fee.’ Owen had for Alisoun.

‘I’d not considered that,’ said Henry.

‘Before I go home to my dinner I must talk to the lads biding in the Clee.’

‘May God watch over you, Captain,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to meet the person who so subtly murdered the steersman.’

‘Keep me in your prayers, Brother Henry.’

Hempe waited without. ‘How is he?’

Owen shook his head, then crossed himself. ‘Dead of poison on the blade that cut him.’

Hempe cursed. ‘I spoke to one man who’d seen Drogo running from a tavern in Petergate late this afternoon. I’ll see what I can learn there. Let us meet in the York Tavern.’

Owen agreed, then headed out the abbey gate towards the Clee, where he was quite sure Master John, the schoolmaster of St Peters, would be with his scholars.

Light shone from the chinks in every shutter of the Clee, and spilled out as Dame Agnes opened the door to Owen’s knock, her snowy white cap glowing in the brightness. Young voices also spilled out into the night, as well as thuds and a dog barking. Dame Agnes, a pretty woman with a pious devotion to her charges, beamed at Owen.

‘Captain Archer, praise God that you are here. Several of my boys are eager to tell someone all they noticed at the barges today. I am so grateful it is you who is come to talk to them. You understand boys.’

She was also talkative. But he was heartened by her greeting.

‘Is there someplace I might talk to them one at a time, beginning with the older scholars?’ he asked. ‘After I’ve spoken to Master John and you.’

She smiled. ‘And how did you guess that Master John would be here?’

‘He would not leave the lads until he was certain they were all calmed,’ said Owen.

‘You know him well. These boys are blessed in their schoolmaster.’

‘And their matron,’ he added, falling into her rhythm.

As they spoke he’d noticed the youngest scholars joining her, crowding around her. Now she glanced around (for they were not much shorter than she was) and exclaimed, ‘Oh my boys, Captain Archer is going to help us discover the truth of what happened to the pilot this afternoon.’ Her expression, when she raised her eyes to Owen’s once more, was dramatically changed. ‘We must learn the truth.’ There was fear in her eyes, fear for her lads. She understood this was no mere schoolboys’ tussle.

Owen was never confident that he would learn the truth. He knew full well that the truth was not always in the best interests of the powerful, and they could, and often did, control the outcome of his investigation. But looking at the trusting faces lifted to his he prayed that he was able to resolve this in a manner that would restore a sense of safe order to the lads.

Dame Agnes asked the boys to fetch one of the servants and ask Master John to attend her.

The schoolmaster was the first to appear, dividing the pulsing crowd of boys as Moses had the waters of the Red Sea. ‘Archer!’ he boomed. With his deep, strong baritone and his animated yet kindly face he seemed born to his calling. ‘So His Grace the Archbishop has taken an interest in our tragedy?’

‘I am not here at his request,’ said Owen. ‘But I’ve no doubt he will wish to have this resolved.’

‘He’s taken precious little interest in Chancellor Thomas’s concern about Nicholas Ferriby’s school,’ said Dame Agnes with a sniff.

‘Because it is a needless concern,’ said John in the tone of one tired of repeating himself, ‘and absurd to threaten him with excommunication. I agree with His Grace on that. Ferriby’s scholars have no hope of entering St Peter’s.’ His smile was affectionate.

Dame Agnes hesitated with a little frown, but then bobbed her head at a servant who had just joined them. He was out of breath and smelled of onions. ‘Watch the lads while we retire to my chamber, Stephen.’

The servant grinned and thanked her. Owen guessed he was relieved to have a reprieve from chopping onions.

Agnes’s chamber was a screened-off corner of the hall, large enough for a small bed, a table, a few stools, and a large trunk. She settled on the bed and gestured to them to take the stools.

‘I hoped you might tell me what the lads have said about their part in Drogo’s death,’ said Owen.

‘Death?’ Agnes whispered, looking over at Master John.

‘God grant him peace,’ said the schoolmaster, his face grave. ‘This is terrible news, Captain, and all the worse for my scholars’ part in the bumping and jostling that might have caused his fall. But how did he die? I understood his fellows quickly pulled him from the water.’

‘The blood, Master John,’ Dame Agnes murmured.

John lifted his eyes to Owen. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that. What really did happen today?’

‘That is what I seek to discover,’ said Owen. ‘Why do you suppose your lads did not seek your help in retrieving young Hubert’s scrip?’

A fond smile broke through the concern. ‘Their sense of adventure, Captain. The older ones love to lead.’

‘They should know better than to engage the bargemen. What is innocent fun to the lads is threatening to the bargemen’s livelihood. I’ve explained that to Jasper many times, but he was there this evening despite my warnings, and despite promising he’d not go to the staithe.’

‘He was not there long, I assure you. He’d stayed behind to copy a passage.’

‘But he did go.’

‘And this time it was not a game with the lads. They did find the scrip, but it was empty.’

‘They did retrieve it?’ Owen had not heard this. ‘How?’

‘When Geoffrey, one of the older scholars, demanded it, Drogo tossed the little purse to him, just like that, and then moved deeper into the crowd.’

‘I would talk to Geoffrey,’ said Owen, glancing at Dame Agnes.

She was quick to understand. ‘I’ll fetch him at once.’ She slipped away.

‘But it was empty, you said.’ Owen thought about how the lad might have responded to that. ‘Did he charge after Drogo when he found it empty?’

‘I don’t think he realised at once that there was nothing in it,’ said Master John.

‘Where is the scrip now?’

The grammar master produced it. It was the size of Owen’s hand, clearly a woman’s scrip, and the pouch was indeed empty. ‘Keep it safe,’ he warned. ‘We may need it.’

The grammar master nodded uneasily.

‘What else have you heard from the lads?’ Owen asked.

‘I heard about the poor man’s bleeding face, and about Nicholas Ferriby fleeing into the abbey grounds in fear of his life.’ Master John shook his head. ‘Foolish man. He is such a foolish man.’

‘The crowd was angry, or so I am told,’ Owen reminded him.

‘Yes, yes, they do say so.’ Master John nodded as he lowered his gaze to the unremarkable floor. ‘Yes.’

‘Abbot Campian advised him to retreat into the abbey.’ Owen wondered whether John’s earlier claim of indifference about Nicholas Ferriby’s school might have been an attempt to deflect questions about the conflict. ‘It is natural that you would resent Nicholas for threatening your income.’

John gave an elaborate shrug. ‘The status and funding of St Peter’s School are Chancellor Thomas Farnilaw’s responsibilities. I am merely the schoolmaster. I’ve no cause to resent Master Nicholas. I am glad that Abbot Campian is giving him sanctuary.’

Owen believed John did resent Nicholas, but that his feelings embarrassed him, being of a mercenary nature.

Dame Agnes had returned with a tall, well-built older scholar with a man’s stubble on his chin and a sullen set to his mouth. ‘This is Geoffrey Townley, Captain,’ she said. ‘Geoffrey, this is Captain Archer, who wishes to ask you about what happened on the barges.’

‘I did not push him into the river,’ said Geoffrey in a wounded tone.

‘That is a good start,’ said Owen. ‘I understand you saw Drogo. Can you tell me all that happened? All that you noticed about him?’

The young man still looked uncertain. ‘You’re not accusing me?’

‘No. I’m asking for your help.’

Geoffrey seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. ‘I am sorry I spoke to you so, Captain.’ By his blush Owen understood that he’d been frightened, which was hardly surprising. The young man repeated what Master John had already told Owen about Drogo tossing the scrip to him, but with an additional piece of information. ‘He smelled of ale, Captain, and I thought he was drunk, the way he moved, like he had to think about lifting his hand and turning his head. But when he bled in front of the Virgin I understood that he’d been injured.’

Ale. He hoped Hempe learned something at the tavern. ‘Did you see him go into the water?’ Owen asked.

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The crowd was thick round him. I feared the barges would start taking on water.’

‘When did you realise the scrip was empty?’

‘The lads crowded round me while we waited for Drogo to be pulled from the river. They asked me to look inside.’ Geoffrey paused, shifting a little, shrugging. ‘I wasn’t going to look, thinking it wasn’t right without Hubert there. But I thought I might feel around, see what I could learn from it, and I felt just the leather. Then I looked, and my fingers had been right. I was holding just the scrip, nothing in it.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Tricked. Cheated. So were we all. But I don’t understand. Why return it if it was empty?’ Geoffrey nodded as Owen was about to speak. ‘I know, he satisfied me and was able to get away, but he did growl something about returning it to Hubert.’

So he’d mentioned the boy by name. Owen wondered whether Drogo had known him or had learned the lad’s name after he’d taken the scrip. ‘Even if you’d looked right away, it sounds as if he quickly disappeared.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘He did. He was very fast.’ The sullen expression had softened into disappointment. ‘When I realised he’d tricked me I was glad he’d fallen into the river.’

‘Geoffrey!’ Dame Agnes need say no more, all the shock and disapproval clear in her tone.

The young man crossed himself. ‘I didn’t feel that for long. I was just angry.’

‘I would have been angry to find I was holding an empty scrip,’ said Owen. ‘Did anyone else catch your eye? Odd behaviour? Someone out of place?’

Geoffrey shook his head.

‘Do you know who Master Nicholas is?’

‘Who? Oh, yes. He was blamed for Drogo’s wounds.’

‘Did you see him on the barges? Take a moment to think back. They sound as if they were crowded.’

The young man lifted his gaze to the ceiling, frowning as he thought, and finally shaking his head as he lowered his gaze to Owen once more. ‘No. Do you think it was Master Nicholas who was drinking with Drogo?’

‘I doubt it, though I can’t say why. If you hear anything or remember anything else that you think might be of use, I need to know.’ Owen was about to give him leave to go, but thought of one more question. ‘Were you at the abbey gate when Drogo bled?’

‘I was, Captain.’

‘Did you see Master Nicholas approach him?’

‘I did.’ Geoffrey frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Did he carry a weapon?’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘Did he try to sneak up to Drogo?’

Geoffrey shook his head.

‘Did he seem worried? Frightened?’

‘No, Captain.’

‘I am grateful, Geoffrey. And — you might tell the other lads what I’ve asked. I would like to hear from anyone with anything to add.’

Geoffrey nodded and hastened out.

Hempe awaited Owen at the York Tavern, thoughtfully staring at the ceiling beam, a tankard of ale firmly in hand. As Owen greeted him he seemed to remember that he was cross, and pulled his brows together.

‘He’d been in the tavern, a cloaked man entered, said something and left, and then Drogo left.’ Hempe shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Precious little in that.’

‘No one recognised the man?’

‘Cloaked and hooded.’ Hempe snorted and shook his head. ‘It could not be much more useless, could it?’

‘So it might have been a priest?’

‘I suppose it might have been a woman for all they could tell.’ Hempe cursed under his breath.

‘You are so caught up in this?’ Owen asked, curious about this man who was becoming a friend.

‘I don’t like the smell of it,’ said Hempe. ‘What did you learn?’

Owen filled him in, by which time Hempe thought he ought to head home.

‘Being raised to a bailiff of the city has been a mixed blessing for my trade.’ Hempe was a mercer. ‘I have more business, but I’m far less efficient.’

‘You’re likely to hold public office for the rest of your life,’ said Owen. ‘You’re a worthy man, and it’s noticed.’

Hempe grumbled something as he departed, but it was plain he appreciated the compliment.

He was no sooner out the door than Bess Merchet joined Owen. She did not like to be seen socialising with the city officers — it made some customers uncomfortable. Over an ale she recounted for Owen her conversation with the two bargemen.

‘Already bleeding when he arrived,’ Owen said, realising Brother Henry might have been right about the attack happening elsewhere. ‘What else?’

Bess told him how, to her thinking, Hubert’s carrying the scrip about with him was unusual.

‘I’d not considered that,’ Owen admitted, as much to himself as to her. He would ask Jasper what he thought of that. ‘Did the one who suggested someone having cause to be after the bargemen say why he thought that might be?’

‘That was Hal who suggested it,’ said Bess, glancing towards the corner of the room. ‘I did not ask, Bart was so certain it was about the lad’s scrip.’

Owen followed her gaze, but saw only a pair of travellers and a young man in a goldsmith’s livery in the corner. ‘Are they still here?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Hal honoured my request to take Bart away before he grew restless. I could find out where they bide.’

‘Would you, my friend?’ Owen pressed her hand. ‘I may need them before I’m finished.’

‘Lucie looks herself again,’ said Bess, ‘you’ve naught to fret about there, though she’ll be less pleased than I am that His Grace has already set you to the task of finding Drogo’s murderer.’

‘He hasn’t,’ said Owen, leaning back to drain his tankard. Wiping his mouth, he rose. ‘But he will. Abbot Campian sent for me, and in the next day or so he’ll begin to worry about the safety of the abbey bargemen — after all, we have no idea why someone attacked Drogo, and he’ll ask His Grace for my assistance. His Grace will be only too happy to agree in order to bring peace to St Peter’s School. So I have begun to ask questions while folk still remember what they thought they witnessed. Though some are already confused.’

‘Not everyone has spoken sense?’ Bess leaned over to wipe the table top with one efficient flourish. She was eager for gossip.

‘No. A lad had told Dame Agnes at the Clee that he’d been standing beside the older scholar who pushed Drogo into the Ouse, but what he saw was the student help the man who dived in to save Drogo. He’d freed the man’s sleeve from a nail that had snagged it. Others had witnessed it and laughed at the lad’s mistake.’

Bess laughed. ‘Poor chick! He’ll regret ever having said a peep.’

‘It’s a difficult lesson he’s learned, that he should not jump to conclusions,’ Owen agreed. ‘Keep your ears pricked, my friend.’

He headed home, looking forward to discussing the evening’s events with Lucie, his most trusted advisor. He was still smiling about the lad’s mistake when he entered the hall. Lucie and Jasper were sitting at the table quietly talking. Dame Phillippa nodded by the fire — she seemed to sleep all the day of late. Alisoun’s voice curled down from the solar — she was softly singing to the children. He said a prayer of thanksgiving for the peace in his household. Lucie lifted her head, then rose to greet him, but he told her to sit and rest herself and went over to kiss her. The child in her womb slowed her steps and swelled her ankles. He admired Lucie’s courage in carrying this baby and tried not to think how with each pregnancy — this was her fourth in the eight years they’d been wed — she aged a little more. He thought God cruel in making them choose between children of their flesh and each other. He caught himself, wondering why his thoughts had gone from cheer to gloom so quickly. He turned to Jasper.

‘Are you rested? Might we talk of Hubert and what you saw today?’

‘I didn’t have a chance to tell you before — the best news is that Hubert’s da and Sir Baldwin are alive. Master Nicholas told me.’

‘God spared them? I am glad of that,’ said Owen. Nicholas had said nothing of this to him, but then he’d been worried about his own survival.

Lucie rose again. ‘I’ll tell Kate to serve us.’

‘Let Jasper ask her. Then we’ll talk,’ said Owen, having known full well that he would be rewarded with the frown that she now gave him. ‘You are my beauty and my love, wife, and I’ll cherish you as I may.’

Lucie blushed and could not hold the frown. She kissed Owen’s cheek.

Jasper grinned as he rose. ‘The captain and his Welsh charm win the match!’

Owen noticed Alisoun’s wax tablet beside where Jasper had been sitting. ‘Her schoolmaster is not easy in his mind this night.’

Lucie studied Owen’s face for a moment. ‘You are involved even before His Grace has commanded you.’

‘And how do you know whether or not I’ve spoken to Thoresby?’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘You were smiling when you returned. He always leaves you in a temper.’

Jasper rejoined them, sliding back onto the bench across the table. ‘Have you learned much else?’ he asked Owen, reminding him that he’d promised to let him know what he heard.

‘A little.’ Owen summed up his evening’s gleanings while Kate set trenchers of stewed fish and root vegetables before them. ‘Drogo was bleeding when he arrived at the staithe,’ he concluded. ‘And Bess reminded me that lads don’t often walk about with scrips. What say you?’

Jasper rolled his eyes as he chewed a mouthful.

‘She is right,’ said Lucie.

‘He’s worn it every day since he returned to school,’ said Jasper. ‘Some teased him about it, those who bide in the Clee. They said he convinced the matron to let him sleep with it beneath his pillow.’

‘I should think many of the lads hid something dear to them such as that,’ said Lucie. ‘I did at St Clement’s.’ Lucie had lived at St Clement’s Nunnery after her mother died. Her father’s gift of the house had been in part an attempt to make amends for having sent her away.

‘Dame Agnes has some amusing rules,’ said Jasper. ‘Pillows must be flat on the pallet or the lads will grow crooked. She reminds them to lie on their backs in bed. Though no one checks them during the night.’ He chuckled.

‘She is a dear, God-fearing woman,’ said Lucie, ‘but I’m grateful she wasn’t my matron.’ She and Jasper laughed.

Though he was enjoying the lightness of the conversation, Owen was very tired and wanted to hear what else Jasper knew so that he might head for bed. So once more he turned to his son. ‘Tell me about Hubert’s disappearance.’

Jasper shrugged. ‘There is little to tell. Several days back Master John missed him in class. The lads said he’d awakened that day at the Clee. One was sent to ask Dame Agnes if he was ill. She’d thought he was in class. Then Master John sent word to his ma in Weston, hoping that’s where he’s gone, but he’s still waiting for a reply. They’ve had the crier and the parish priests in the city ask for news of him. None of the gatekeepers had noticed him passing through, but I know they don’t see all who pass. I was able to hide from them when I needed to.’ Jasper had witnessed a murder and had been on the run when Owen and Lucie took him in. ‘Some close to Hubert said he was that upset about losing the scrip it sickened him.’

‘Weston? That’s a long way for a lad to travel,’ said Owen. ‘And dangerous.’

‘And with his scrip stolen, he’s no way to pay the ferryman,’ said Lucie, pressing Jasper’s hand. ‘It takes me back to when you were on the streets.’

Owen did not like the sound of this. He did not want Lucie sinking into fear for her children as she had the previous autumn. ‘Tell me about Hubert,’ he said. ‘He must be well liked for you lads to go to such trouble to help him.’

‘He’s one of the younger scholars, so I don’t know him well. As I said, he’s a charity student this term. His da was away fighting for the king in La Rochelle, but, as I said, he and his lord survived. But we didn’t know that earlier today. I wonder whether he knows?’

‘So you thought to help the family,’ said Lucie.

‘Yes. But I think we’ve made it all worse.’

‘What more do you know of the lad?’ Owen asked.

‘He lost a brother and sister to the pestilence, so his ma’s alone now — was alone. He thought his place was at his mother’s side, not at school.’

‘Sounds like a serious young man.’

Jasper nodded. ‘He’s quiet, but he’s not strangely quiet. Everyone likes him.’

‘He sounds like a model student,’ said Lucie.

‘Master John does not favour him in any way. Too quiet, I think — the master likes the spirited ones.’

‘Where would you guess he is?’ Owen asked.

‘Trying to find his way home, if not there already,’ said Jasper. ‘It’s all about his ma, I think, and feeling like he’s all she has left.’

‘I would say you should go to Weston, my love,’ said Lucie, beginning to rise. ‘Young Hubert is the person you must talk to.’

Owen bowed his head. Only last night he’d returned from a few days at Bishopthorpe and he was not keen to set off again.

Lucie and Owen lay in bed the following morning bundled up so that they would not freeze with the shutters open, watching the first snow of the season in the soft early light. It was a sweet moment for Lucie, with her joy in being in the arms of her love and feeling their child move in her womb. Yet even so, there was a shadow on her heart; it had been on the day of the first snow nine years earlier that her late husband Nicholas had fallen ill and what she thought she knew of those she loved had been turned on its head.

‘I hate to speak and shatter the grace of this moment,’ said Owen, reaching for her hand and holding it in both of his, ‘but I am worried that you will spend the morning kneeling in the garden.’

It was Lucie’s custom to honour this anniversary with a vigil at Nicholas’s grave. Archbishop Thoresby had consecrated a grave for Nicholas in the back of the garden, for the apothecary garden had been his master work. Lucie was not surprised that Owen worried about her. She knew he’d never been comfortable about the ritual because of the customary weather.

‘Not today, my love,’ she assured him, kissing one of his battle-scarred hands. ‘I would not risk the health of our child.’

She drew his hand to her stomach and watched his expression as their child kicked him roundly. Owen’s eye opened wide in wonder, and his face crinkled into the most beautiful smile in God’s kingdom.

‘Now that’s a sturdy kick,’ he said in a voice tight with emotion.

‘Or a punch,’ said Lucie, enjoying the moment and wishing it could be prolonged.

A knock on the street door down below distracted both parents, but not the baby, who flailed away.

‘Quiet,’ Lucie whispered, rubbing her great stomach.

Someone clattered up the stairs.

‘Hugh,’ said Owen with a laugh. ‘Do you think he’ll ever walk a straight line?’

The boy proceeded to pound on their door. When Alisoun called him away, he stomped in protest.

‘We’re awake,’ Owen called out. ‘Save the door and let Hugh in.’

Lucie laughed with him, hiding her disappointment in Owen’s allowing the interruption.

The door eased open and Hugh peered around it, his fiery red hair unmistakable for anyone else’s. Seeing Owen and Lucie watching for him, he squealed and raced into the room.

From the hallway, out of view, Alisoun said, ‘I am sorry about Hugh. I was too slow to catch him. A messenger is here from His Grace the Archbishop. He said he is to bring Captain Archer to the palace at once.’

Lucie and Owen exchanged looks of regret over the moving head of their son.

‘I told you he’d send for me.’

‘You’ve not broken your fast,’ Lucie said, wanting him healthy.

‘He’ll feed me,’ said Owen. ‘But I can’t go at once. I want to say good morning to Gwenllian.’ He was already up and dressing. ‘I’ll tell him I’ll come to the palace bye and bye.’

The snow had stopped before Owen stepped out into Davygate, and already what had fallen was turning to a slippery slush underfoot, the sort of surface he’d hated since losing half his sight. Long ago, while in the service of the Duke of Lancaster, he’d been blinded by the leman of a prisoner of war, a debility that had ended his career as captain of archers. Neither the duke’s physician nor Magda Digby had been able to save Owen’s sight. It was then that he’d learned to read and write in order to be the duke’s ears in the court circles, and it was these abilities as well as his fighting skills that had interested Archbishop Thoresby when the old duke died — for as Lord Chancellor of England the archbishop also had need of a spy. Owen had loved and honoured the old duke, Henry of Grosmont, a fine commander and a deeply pious man. Owen had not trusted the new duke, the husband of Henry’s daughter Blanche and a younger son of the king, and had therefore agreed to enter Thoresby’s service, naïvely believing that an archbishop would be as moral as the old duke. He’d quickly learned to his regret that although Thoresby was a man of God, he was also an ambitious man, a man who believed that it was often best to look the other way in order to protect strategic alliances. Falling in love with Lucie Wilton had tied Owen to the archbishop’s service. It was not only that in deference to his lord the guild had allowed Lucie to continue in her late husband’s apothecary upon marrying Owen, but even more importantly the circumstances of her husband’s death might have remained a blot on Lucie’s name but for Thoresby’s influence. For that, Owen owed him his allegiance.

With his faulty depth-perception challenging him in the half-light of the snowy November streets, Owen picked his way past York Minster and into the grounds of the archbishop’s palace with a caution that frustrated him — he was aching to stretch and move. When he found that the stone steps leading up to the palace doors had already been swept of snow, he took them two at a time. He found Brother Michaelo, secretary to the archbishop, awaiting him in the doorway to Thoresby’s private hall in his characteristically spotless Benedictine habit, an amused expression on his aristocratically bony face.

‘You are restless in the city, Captain?’ he asked in his Norman accent. ‘Or were you impatient to reach the top?’

‘Both,’ Owen said, catching his breath. For that to have winded him meant he needed far more activity than he had managed of late.

Michaelo responded with an elegant shrug. ‘His Grace awaits you in his parlour.’

‘This is about the drowning?’

Michaelo lowered his head slightly, his manner of nodding. ‘I warn you, His Grace rose quite early and is not in good temper.’

‘Thank you for the warning.’

Owen found Thoresby sitting by a brazier in his parlour, his hands steepled before him, staring out the glazed window opposite that opened onto the winter garden. He slowly turned to acknowledge Owen.

‘You came in your own good time, Archer.’ His sunken eyes were difficult to read, but the irritation in his deep voice was quite clear.

‘I was filthy, Your Grace, and I did not wish to insult you with my state, so I washed.’ It was a safe lie, for Thoresby had an unusual fondness for bathing. Owen bowed to him and then took his seat beside a small table set with bread, cheese, and ale. ‘Your Grace is kind to think of me.’

To Owen’s surprise, Thoresby broke out in deep-bellied laughter.

‘Kind? I did not think I would live to see the day when you called me kind.’

‘You are in a better humour than I expected.’ Owen wondered why Brother Michaelo had misled him. But it was a passing thought as he reached for the food; it was always a boon to be offered the hospitality of Maeve’s kitchen. He broke off a piece of the crumbly cheese and popped it into his mouth, followed by Maeve’s unparalleled pandemain, the softest, whitest bread under heaven.

‘Do you know about yesterday’s tragedy on the Abbey Staithe, Archer?’ Thoresby asked, serious once more. He poured water and wine from delicate flagons of Italian glass into a matching goblet, then sat back in his throne-like chair to sip it.

Owen had not seen the flagon and goblet set before. As he washed down with the strong ale what he’d managed to eat so far he wondered whether the mayor was still trying to win Thoresby’s trust with valuable gifts.

‘The abbey infirmarian sent for me,’ said Owen. ‘And Jasper had been on the staithe when Drogo went into the Ouse. I’ve not yet spoken to the bargemen.’ He went down the list of what he knew so far.

Thoresby interrupted only when Owen came to Nicholas Ferriby’s unfortunate timing.

‘Do you believe it was pure chance?’

‘More than likely, Your Grace. Why would a guilty man risk stepping close to the man? But the fact is, Drogo was not yet dead at that point. It was hardly a miracle that his wounds bled. It is the way of crowds, forgetting their wits in their excitement.’

‘I don’t want the outcry about that incident to become part of the conflict between Ferriby and St Peter’s School,’ Thoresby said.

‘How would it?’

Thoresby held his goblet with both hands and swirled the contents as he gazed down at it. ‘Such a crime would seal Nicholas Ferriby’s damnation — a scandal for both the clerical Ferribys. William would also suffer.’ He glanced up at Owen. ‘You think I’m losing my wits.’ He sighed. ‘I’m slower, more tired, but my wits are in order, Archer.’ He rose with a grunt and crossed over to the window, his simple clerical robes hanging loosely on his tall, increasingly gaunt frame. ‘They cannot understand why I count Ferriby’s school as nothing more than an annoying flea in the minster liberty, perhaps not even so much. They should have made certain of my support before threatening him with excommunication. It carries no weight without my support, and now they are angry with me.’

‘They might recall your censoring the opening of a song school in the city, Your Grace.’

‘You know that was different, Archer. The song school is a Church affair. A grammar school is useful to all who would enter a trade, learning reasoning, reading, a little writing.’

Owen did see the difference. ‘I am surprised that the dean supports the chancellor’s excessive anger.’ As it was the chancellor’s role in the liberty to oversee the grammar and song schools, it was understandable that a rival school might anger him. But Owen would have thought the dean would have a cooler head. ‘Would the Pope agree with this even if you were to support them? Is holding a rival grammar school such a terrible sin against the Church?’

Thoresby turned from the window, smiling. ‘Of course not. But they’ll use the incident with Drogo against Ferriby. They’ll find a way, mark me, Archer.’

Owen thought it best not to mention the grammar master’s Wycliffite opinions. Thoresby would only resent his giving him a reason to question his support of Nicholas. ‘That someone mortally wounded Drogo is of more concern to the folk of this city,’ said Owen. ‘The lad whose scrip is at the centre of all this must be found.’

‘Indeed,’ said the archbishop, thoughtfully nodding. ‘I am aware that the lad might be in danger.’

Owen had been ready to argue that point, as was his custom with Thoresby. Sometimes he wondered whether Thoresby’s contrariness had always been a game meant to irk him.

Returning to his chair, the archbishop took up his cup, sipped, and then asked, ‘What is your plan?’

He decided to be glad of the archbishop’s improved attitude. ‘The lad’s almost certainly not in the city, and from what Jasper tells me it’s quite likely he’s tried to return home. He might have learned that his father survived La Rochelle and has gone home. Master John of St Peter’s has received no reply to the message he sent to the lad’s mother, but then Master Nicholas, her parish priest, is not there to read it to her. I propose to head to Weston in the hope that the lad is at home, or if he is not to search the countryside between here and Weston.’

‘And if you find no trace of him?’

‘Perhaps his parents might suggest another likely place. But if not …’ Owen shrugged, not at present having a further plan. ‘At least we’ll have tried all we could think to do.’

‘Yes.’ Thoresby shifted a little. ‘What might the lad have carried? Have you any idea?’ He sought Owen’s good eye and held his gaze.

‘None,’ Owen admitted. ‘Anything that would fit in a lad’s scrip and is of value to someone. That is little to go on.’

‘A fool’s errand, going to Weston?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Take horses from my stables,’ said Thoresby, ‘and what men you see fit to accompany you. I would offer my barge, but I think the River Wharfe has too many rapids for it.’

Owen had hardly expected such a generous offer as the barge. He was a little sorry that it wasn’t appropriate for the journey. ‘Aye. It is not so navigable as the Ouse. Who will you be taking with you to Bishopthorpe?’

‘You need not concern yourself with that in choosing men. I intend to remain in York until this matter is settled. I don’t like the idea of Ferriby being made a scapegoat for the minster’s financial problems. If they need more money for the upkeep of the school they should raise fees or accept more students, not threaten a good man with excommunication.’

‘Is that at the bottom of your support? Not the lad’s fate?’

‘Both their fates are at present intertwined, Archer. Now who will accompany you?’

‘Not Alfred. He’s of more use to me here, in charge. I’ll take Rafe and Gilbert.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘Do you know young Hubert de Weston by sight?’

‘I’d thought of that. No, I don’t, but Jasper knows him, and his presence would be reassuring to the lad.’

‘You might take Nicholas Ferriby,’ Thoresby suggested. ‘There is no need to involve more in your household.’

‘Jasper already feels a part of all this, Your Grace. He’s fond of Hubert, and remembers how he felt when his father died.’

‘You don’t trust Ferriby,’ said Thoresby.

‘If that were true I would not have sent Alisoun to his school. Even so, whether or not I trust him is beside the point, Your Grace.’

‘Do you think Drogo’s bleeding was a sign of Ferriby’s guilt?’ A hint of a smile played on the archbishop’s thin lips.

‘No. But his imprudent decision about the grammar school — ’ Thoresby had touched on something Owen had been trying to ignore — ‘I do question his motives now.’ And I worry about what he’s teaching. ‘But there was no bleeding corpse, Your Grace. Drogo was alive.’

‘So be it,’ Thoresby said. ‘I am counting on you to save my friend Emma Ferriby from more grief.’

So that was his interest in this. Lucie’s good friend was the daughter of an old, very dear friend of the archbishop’s. His death the previous year had aged Thoresby even more than had the death of Queen Phillippa, whom he’d worshipped. Owen and Lucie had both become involved in the aftermath of Sir Ranulf’s death, and he understood why Thoresby wished to spare the family.

‘Emma considers her brother-in-law a fool for placing his school in the liberty,’ said Owen.

‘He is still her husband’s brother,’ said Thoresby. ‘I want this settled as quietly and as quickly as possible.’ The fire was visible in his eyes now.

Owen emptied his cup of ale.

Thoresby rose. ‘I’ll tell Michaelo that you will be choosing some horses from the stables, and he’ll prepare a letter of introduction for you. It might be helpful to talk to the family’s landlord, Baldwin Gamyll.’

Owen bowed. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Do not disappoint me, Archer.’

‘That is not my intention I assure you, Your Grace. I shall do my best; the rest is in God’s hands.’

Thoresby grunted and waved him out the door.

The archbishop rarely took Owen’s faith as sincere. It was one of many aspects of their relationship that puzzled Owen, that Thoresby trusted him, counted on him, but considered him a man of little faith.

As he stepped out into what had become a sunny but chilly day, Owen decided not to leave the minster liberty at once, but to stop at the lodgings of Nicholas Ferriby. He assumed the man was not still hiding in the abbey.

Unfortunately, Nicholas already had a guest, his brother Canon William.

Nicholas gestured to Owen to take a seat by the brazier. His brother had taken the one seat with a back, which Owen guessed to be the schoolmaster’s chair during the school day. The room was tidy except for a cupboard from which books, papers, rolls poked out every which way, giving the impression that the knowledge was reaching out into the room to grab the nearest mind.

Nicholas settled down near him. The sweat on his brow and upper lip belied his assurance that he and William had been idly chatting and welcomed another participant. Something uncomfortable had transpired between them, Owen thought.

‘This is a pleasant room,’ said Owen. ‘My children’s nurse, Alisoun Ffulford, is one of your scholars and speaks highly of your skill in teaching.’

The schoolmaster forced a smile. ‘Alisoun. Yes. She has a quick mind, Captain. I am gratified to hear she speaks well of my little school. I am delighted to have several young women attending.’

After a pause, in which Owen tried but failed to come up with a comment that could not be construed as referring to his troubles with the dean and chancellor, Nicholas filled in the silence.

‘Did Archbishop Thoresby assign you to guard me, Captain?’ he asked. ‘The crowd was vicious last night. Vicious.’ He pressed his hands together and shook his shoulders as if shivering. It was an incongruously comical gesture as it was plain in his eyes and voice that he was upset.

‘I heard, yes, but they were clearly wrongheaded — the man was still alive. Did you know Drogo?’

The schoolmaster shook his head, wide-eyed and quick to add, ‘Why would I?’

‘I thought perhaps you might have the occasion to travel by boat between Weston and York and might have had occasion to hire him as pilot.’ Owen did not actually believe this, but he thought he might see something in the man’s response.

‘A costly means of travel,’ William noted, ‘and slow, considering the weirs and rapids on the River Wharfe. It would waste time.’ Weston sat on the Wharfe’s north bank west of Leeds.

Owen was disappointed to learn nothing from Nicholas’s reaction. ‘So you’d never met Drogo, but you stepped up to say prayers over him last night?’ Owen allowed his tone and frown to add that he found that puzzling.

‘I am a priest, Captain.’ Nicholas’s voice cracked slightly, and he blushed and glanced away. ‘I would do so for any poor soul.’

‘For that I can vouch,’ said William. The canon was a quiet, expressionless man, quite a contrast to his brother.

Owen pretended to be satisfied. ‘My business is with Hubert de Weston, whose lost scrip seemed to be at the core of this trouble. The lad’s been missing a week. As you are pastor of Weston I wondered whether you might have had news of him.’

Nicholas shrank back a little, and had begun to shake his head when William spoke up.

‘My brother saw his father at Mass on Sunday, didn’t you, Nicholas?’

A pale nod met this betrayal. Owen wondered why Nicholas had not wished him to know the father was safely at home. ‘I did see Aubrey de Weston, yes. But not young Hubert.’ He avoided looking at William.

Owen wondered whether Nicholas hadn’t wanted to reveal that he’d been in Weston the previous Sunday, or whether he was merely picking up echoes of the brothers’ conflict.

‘It would have been a kindness to tell Master John of St Peter’s that Hubert’s father was safe at home.’

‘Tell Master John?’ Nicholas sputtered. ‘I am hardly one to say anything to Master John at present, though he is not as vicious as the dean and chancellor.’ He glared at his brother, who dropped his blank gaze to the floor.

A mere courtesy might go a long way to soothing tempers, thought Owen, but he went straight to his purpose. ‘I’ve come to ask the way to the lad’s home.’

‘You’re off to Weston?’ asked William.

‘I am.’

‘But why, Captain?’ Nicholas asked.

‘In the hope of finding the lad and talking to him about Drogo,’ said Owen. ‘So. Can you tell me how to find him? And the Gamyll manor?’

‘Why the Gamylls?’ Nicholas asked.

‘As a courtesy. I’ll be on their land.’

‘But of course,’ said Nicholas, and pulling a wax tablet from a stack nearby he drew a map.

As Owen left the minster liberty he found himself anxious to arrive in Weston before something more happened. He was quite certain that Nicholas had not wished to be completely open with him, but why he felt that he was not sure. He would have Alfred keep an eye on him.