The Guilt of Innocents

Three

Several days earlier, Hubert de Weston had approached his home with caution. Despite being hungry, thirsty and sore of foot, he’d hesitated to make himself known to his mother, for the closer he’d come, the more he’d doubted she’d be glad to see him. She had insisted that he return to school, believing that with an education he would be ensured a good life. So she would not be happy that he’d run away. But he would be so relieved to see her — that was his goal, and to make sure that she was all right. Then he could return to school with a clear conscience, though he dreaded the journey back. He’d also dreaded discovering that his mother was not well, or — he’d feared even imagining ‘the something worse’ because if evil thoughts were sins then thoughts had power, just as charms did. He’d crossed himself and prayed that his mother was well, that the cross he’d lost did not have the power of a charm.

On his approach a rhythmic sound had caught his attention — it was like something sliding and thumping, sliding and thumping, and he’d recognised it as the sound of chain mail being rocked, spun in the rocker barrel with wood chips and oil. But Aubrey had taken all his chain mail with him. Hubert had had a sinking feeling in his belly as he’d considered the possibility that his father was alive and here. This was not the something worse that he’d feared, but it was bad enough.

He’d pressed his palms against the house and prayed that he would find his mother rocking something other than chain mail, that her cheeks would be rosy with the cold air and her eyes bright, and that she would turn towards him and light up with joy at his coming. Then he’d peered around the corner and seen Aubrey about ten paces from the house, his face screwed up in anger, his lips moving in a silent rant as he’d turned the rocking barrel on its stand. Hubert had imagined he was cursing about doing his own work; he was never satisfied with his family, never.

‘Aubrey?’ His mother’s voice had come from the house — she must be at the door.

Hubert not only had not stepped forward to see around the corner, he’d retreated a little, unsure he wanted either of his parents to see him yet.

‘Husband,’ she’d called out in a stronger voice tinged with irritation.

Aubrey had not stopped turning the handle at once, but he’d slowed and looked up at Ysenda, who had now stepped out far enough into the yard that Hubert could see her. She wore a coil of rope dangling on one arm, like a huge, clumsy bracelet.

‘May I go to collect firewood?’ She’d been trying to keep her tone humble, but Hubert could hear the angry edge.

‘No, damn you, woman. I’ll fetch it.’ Aubrey had stopped turning and kicked the rocker. ‘You can finish cleaning the mail. And do it right. It might lie in the chest for years now, till Hubert is summoned by Osmund Gamyll to fight by his side, as I was by Sir Baldwin.’ They were Sir Baldwin’s tenants, and owed him service when the king summoned him.

Hubert had almost laughed out loud, trying to imagine Sir Baldwin’s son going to battle. In truth he feared and despised Osmund Gamyll and dreaded a time the man would be his lord.

‘I know where the storms have torn at the trees, Aubrey,’ said Ysenda. ‘There is no need for you to quit your work when I can find the wood faster than you could.’

‘I said I’ll gather the wood.’ Aubrey had snatched at the rope.

Ysenda had hurriedly slipped it off her arm before he tugged too hard and had handed it to him.

Hubert hated how his father treated his mother like a prisoner. She had a temper, especially when she’d been drinking, but she was the mistress of the house and needed to go about her duties. Aubrey did not like her going to Sir Baldwin’s wood for fuel, he did not like her going to market, he did not even like her to go to Mass without him. So she sneaked out more often than not, which was the cause of most of their arguments, though Hubert was certain that had she not gone out they would have argued about there being no food, no drink, no fuel for the fire. Aubrey was a fool to fuss about her going to the wood after he’d been away so long. He must realise she’d been fetching for herself all that time, at least when Hubert was in school.

But at least he would be gone for a time and Hubert could be alone with his mother. Unfortunately, since it was only hours till the early dusk of November he must spend the night there, with his parents. He’d sunk down with his back to the wall to await Aubrey’s departure.

Despite the cold, he must have fallen asleep for a while, for the sun had deserted him and when he’d looked out he’d seen his mother removing the chain mail from the rocker. He must have been very tired to have slept through that noise.

Taking a deep breath, he’d stepped out from the side of the house. ‘Ma!’

Ysenda had turned to him and pressed the chain mail to her breast. ‘What are you doing here, Hubert?’ Her words had been oddly pronounced, and as Hubert reached her he’d seen the cause — her left cheek was bruised and swollen, obliterating the pretty dimple.

He’d hugged her, then stretched up to gently kiss her injured cheek. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘He’s home,’ she’d said.

‘I know. How long has he been here?’

She’d blown a strand of hair from her eyes, still clutching the chain mail. ‘Perhaps a week.’

‘And he’s already beaten you.’ Hubert had touched his mother’s cheek again, wondering how anyone could want to hurt her.

She’d taken a step backwards, frowning crookedly. ‘Did Master John send you home? Did someone accompany you? Is this what was in the letter? I’d no one to read it to me.’

Her questions and her faraway eyes confused him. ‘You’re not glad to see me?’ he asked.

She must have remembered the mail she had clutched to her, for now she shook it out. ‘Does this look clean to you?’

He dutifully ran a hand down it, trying to discern any flaws in it. The rings felt intact, but that did not mean they were free of dirt and rust. ‘The light’s faded too much to see,’ he said.

She cursed under her breath and tossed the mail back into the rocker. ‘I pray you, work on it a while longer, there’s a good lad.’ She bent to peck him on the cheek, a hand at the small of her back. ‘I am glad to see you, son. But I’m worried, as well, with your da being here. And you haven’t answered me. Did Master John discharge you? What did you do to displease him? I pray it isn’t anything your da won’t like. Did someone escort you?’

‘I came alone, and Master John doesn’t know I’m here. I was worried about you, all alone, with winter coming on.’ He’d hoped she would not ask for details of his journey. He did not wish to worry her.

‘Oh Hubert, as you see I’m not alone. And you were to learn and make something of yourself, not fret about me. What will Master John say?’ She’d pressed a hand to her swollen cheek. ‘I’m a grown woman. It’s not your place to worry about your mother.’ She’d massaged her temples and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll lie down for a little while.’

Hubert had watched her until she disappeared inside, hoping that she’d turn around and say she was glad to see him. But she had not turned, not to say that or to ask how he’d made his way alone from York, or comment on how thin and dirty he was. He had not wanted her to ask about his journey, but it hurt that she had not. He never should have gone away. He had not wanted to. He remembered how angry he’d been when she’d insisted he return to school. He’d gone mad, lashing out at a goose in his anger.

It had been a hot summer afternoon. The geese, ever-vigilant, had watched as Hubert crossed the yard, apparently sensing his mood. They were ready to attack if he showed any interest in moving towards them. He’d ignored them until he’d moved far enough in the opposite direction for them to lose interest; then he’d turned and, raising his arms above his head as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, he’d charged them, startling all into flight but one stubborn male.

He’d lunged towards the defender, who’d flapped his wings and shot his beak towards Hubert’s leg, almost managing a nip. But Hubert’s energy had been equal to the gander’s and he’d spun away in time. What happened next was what haunted Hubert — again he’d lunged for the gander with a temper so vicious he’d stopped himself just short of wringing the fowl’s neck — he knew he’d intended to do so — and he’d earned a painful bite on the wrist.

Holding his bleeding arm, Hubert had fled to the empty stable and crumpled down onto the hard ground long swept clean of hay, breathing so hard he’d thought he might burst; but in time he’d caught his breath and sat back to suck on his wound until the bleeding slowed. Out in the yard the goose had noisily dared him to try again. Through the chinks in the rotting wall Hubert could see it kicking up dust as it paced and fluttered its wings. He’d been grateful that his mother had gone to Sir Baldwin’s woods to collect firewood and had not witnessed his behaviour.

My Lord, forgive me. Hubert hadn’t understood this anger. He’d seen his father wring the necks of animals out of anger, but in Hubert’s eleven years of life he’d never been driven to such an act. He’d prayed he would not grow up to resemble his father; Aubrey de Weston’s temper darkened the family’s life. Even the plague deaths of two of his children, Hubert’s siblings, had driven him to outbursts of anger rather than grateful affection for his wife and surviving son, leaving Hubert to comfort his mother.

But Hubert was home now. He pushed the memory aside and settled down to rock the chain mail until his arm tired, his mood careening from embarrassment to anger to disappointment to relief to fear, and then they all jumbled together. Nothing had changed at home, and nothing ever would. For the first time he understood that he was quiet at school because it felt good to be quiet, to enjoy the stillness that he felt, the peace — until he’d begun to worry about his mother. He supposed she might be right in saying that he need not worry about her.

Later, when Aubrey had returned, Hubert had made an effort to greet him with a smile and a show of joy that he’d survived.

Aubrey had made an approving sound. ‘Well, they’ve taught you something this time.’ He’d patted Hubert on the shoulder.

Encouraged by the reception, Hubert had asked, ‘Would you tell me about France? And the channel crossing?’

Aubrey had settled back with a cup of watered wine and began to speak in a low voice that Hubert seldom heard. He talked about the work they’d had calming the horses on the crossing, how many men were sickened by what were in truth merely moderate waves, how mild the weather felt as they travelled south.

Hubert had so enjoyed his father’s tales. It had been an evening filled with delights, unlike any other that he could remember at home, and he’d dared to hope that he had indeed learned something from his time at school, a way to cope with his father. Perhaps his maturing would ease the strife in the household.

But no sooner had Hubert gone to bed than his parents had resumed their arguments. He’d wriggled down under the covers as far as he could and still breathe, and wondered how soon he might return to school.

And now, a few days later, they were at it again, arguing about the amount of cider she had in the outbuilding. Hubert hated to hear his mother weep.

He liked to daydream that he was brother to one of his fellow students who lived in a house in the city or on a prosperous farm, but even more importantly he chose the ones who spoke of their fathers with affection and admiration. Then he’d have his imagined mother die in childbirth or something and his imagined dad would meet and fall in love with Hubert’s real mother, for he had no desire for any other mother. Her new husband would come home from travels with exquisite cloth and jewels to adorn her, and her eyes would shine with love as she looked on her happy family. God was omnipotent, so surely He’d created families like that. Hubert could not understand why God would create such a beautiful woman like his mother and then give her such a mean husband, as well as allowing two of her children to succumb to the plague.

His mother deserved happiness, not the misery Hubert was trying not to witness right now. He sat on the bench outside the kitchen, hands cupping his ears against his parents’ voices — his angry, hers tearful. Aubrey de Weston was a heartless man, a man who trusted his lord, but not his family, particularly not his wife. Hubert avoided calling him ‘Da’; it felt better to him to think of his father by name rather than by relationship. Fortunately, Aubrey didn’t seem to notice. Hubert knew it was sinful to wish Aubrey had died at La Rochelle as Father Nicholas had reported, but he could not keep his thoughts from going there. If Hubert were older, stronger, he would have defended his mother’s honour with his fists whenever Aubrey accused her of lying so she wouldn’t be pushed to defend herself. Surely it was the humiliation she felt that resulted in the foul language she sometimes spewed, frightening Hubert.

He hadn’t even been able to keep her pretty cross pendant safe. Its loss was unforgivable. He’d come home to see with his own eyes whether his carelessness had made his mother vanish as well. The fear had gnawed at him for almost a week before he’d worked up the courage to run away from school. He’d not confided in either Master John or Dame Agnes because he thought they would tell him that the loss of a trinket could not make his mother disappear, and would therefore refuse to give him leave to journey to Weston, and most assuredly not alone. But he could not sleep, could not eat, could not study, could not think of anything else until he saw with his own eyes that his mother was unharmed. He’d stolen the cross to have something of her near him, by which action he’d made it a charm. He knew of charms, and knew that they had power beyond the ordinary. It had been his responsibility to protect it, to keep it safe, and he’d failed. He hadn’t expected to see that man on the barges, and his questions about the scrip had frightened Hubert. That’s why he’d run, seeing the man his mother had always tried to keep away from Hubert.

The snowfall on the morning after Drogo’s drowning caused Edric and Jasper to be late in coming into Owen and Lucie’s hall for their morning bread, cheese and ale, for they’d first swept the snow from the threshold of the shop and the paving stones between the shop and the hall. Lucie was glad that the activity had warmed their relationship. Some mornings they arrived from their shared quarters above the shop in chilly silence, but this morning they were trading complaints about Sir Richard de Ravenser’s clerk Douglas and seemed quite companionable.

Alisoun had already brought Gwenllian and Hugh in from catching snowflakes on their tongues to warm up by the fire.

Seeing all the youthful faces bright with the crisp air made Lucie momentarily impatient with her awkward body, feeling confined and idle, but she caught herself and assured God that she loved and cherished the child who moved within her. She could not bear to lose another child, no matter her present discomfort. She’d fallen into such a terrifying despair when she’d miscarried the previous year, fearful that she was now too old to carry a child full term, fearful that Gwenllian and Hugh might be taken from her by illness or accident. Her mind had been so heavy and dark with fear — she thanked God every day for lifting her despair and blessing her with another child.

When Edric and Jasper were sated and warm, they came over to her as usual to join them in returning to the shop.

‘Not this morning,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for the stepping stones to dry.’

‘We’ll escort you, Mistress,’ said Edric with an enthusiasm that almost coaxed Lucie to reconsider.

But Alisoun prevented any such change of heart. ‘Dame Lucie dare not risk a fall, Edric.’

Jasper leaned down and quietly asked Lucie if she would like him to escort her to the back of the garden later.

She shook her head. ‘This year I’ll keep the day in my heart. But bless you for remembering the anniversary. I am grateful.’

He kissed her cheek and pressed her shoulder. ‘I’ll come for you if we meet with a challenge that cannot wait.’

She nodded, too overcome with emotion to trust her voice. More than the clumsiness, she disliked her changeable, exaggerated moods when with child — and for a while afterwards. She dreaded most the darkness that had overwhelmed her when she’d lost the child the previous autumn, and prayed throughout the day and night that God would deliver her from such horror this time. She sensed that she’d almost lost Owen’s comfortable affection last time, that she’d almost driven his heart from her, though she knew he would never physically desert his family. His love and friendship were precious to her and she could not bear to lose either.

She took out her spinning and had regained her sense of well-being when a visitor arrived. It was her friend Emma Ferriby. Kate took Emma’s cloak and announced her, a funny behaviour the maid had taken up of late, amusing because voices carried quite clearly from the hall door to the interior, there being only a small screen blocking the draught, and no screen passage that might have muted the sound. Emma hugged Lucie with affection. She smelled of snowy air and lavender, and her silk gown richly rustled. Kate and Emma’s maid slipped away to the kitchen.

‘You look very well,’ said Emma, having stepped back to observe Lucie. ‘And I envy you. I should so love to have a chance at bearing a daughter to dress in Peter’s beautiful cloth.’ Her husband was a merchant and traded some of the loveliest cloth in York in his shop. Emma held out a package. ‘But since I’m not so blessed, I thought we might pass some time this chilly morning choosing some cloth for the two of us. No doubt you’ll want a new gown for churching.’

‘You are a dear, dear friend to think of that,’ said Lucie, her spirits definitely improving. It would feel wonderful to slip into a new gown once she was able to go abroad. ‘Come, let’s sit at the little table by the window so we can see the colours in daylight.’

‘Such as it is today,’ said Emma, following Lucie across the room. ‘I have never cared for snow. I never feel steady on my feet.’

‘But it has stopped snowing for now,’ said Lucie, ‘has it not?’

‘Yes it has, but the wind is rushing down the streets and keeping the shadowed pavements and frozen mud quite slippery. I was glad of my maid’s arm in several places.’

Before he continued his investigation Owen thought it best to tell Lucie and Jasper about the trip to Weston on the morrow. He found Jasper and Edric in the shop, both busy with customers. At the house he was unhappy to find Emma Ferriby. He was fond of her, but he imagined she was there to find out whether her brother-in-law was in trouble, and Owen could not honestly reassure her that all was well, having come away from Nicholas’s house with a gnawing feeling that the man had lied to him about knowing Drogo.

She and Lucie were bent over swatches of cloth. After the customary greetings Owen decided to do what he’d come home to do and hope that Emma kept her peace.

‘His Grace has offered me horses and men so that I might ride to Weston on the morrow, Lucie. I would take Jasper if you can spare him in the shop. He knows Hubert de Weston, he’ll recognise him if we encounter him. He might also be a comfort to the lad — someone familiar.’

Lucie had nodded her agreement halfway through his determined speech, and now asked only, ‘Do you know that the boy is in Weston?’

‘No, but Emma’s brother-in-law saw his father there on Sunday. Perhaps the boy learned of that and headed home.’ Owen glanced at Emma, expecting her questions to begin now.

But she said, ‘Thank God his father is safe. So Nicholas has been helpful?’ Emma was now sitting back and giving him her full attention. She was a plain, small woman who practised the art of making the best of her features with beautiful clothes well cut.

Owen valued her intelligence and absolute support of Lucie, and so although Nicholas had been helpful only because his brother William had betrayed him, Owen said merely, ‘He has.’

‘You don’t think — ’ Emma glanced over at Lucie. ‘We’ve been talking about my husband’s brother, how Peter worries about Nicholas’s strange choice in situating his school, his childish enthusiasms.’ She shook her head as she would over the unfortunate antics of her sons. ‘But I do not think him capable of attacking that river pilot.’

‘Any man might attack another with cause,’ said Owen. ‘I cannot protect him, Emma.’

She looked hurt. ‘I hope you don’t think that is why I am here, Owen, to ask you to watch over Nicholas.’ She glanced at Lucie, who smiled and pressed her friend’s hand. ‘For your thoughts about his situation, yes, but my first purpose was to while away a gloomy day with Lucie.’

Her honesty beguiled him. ‘I do not know what to think of your Nicholas,’ Owen said. If he was innocent, why was he not straightforward? ‘Do you know of any connection he might have with the pilot?’

Emma shook her head.

‘That may be a good sign. Do you by any chance know Sir Baldwin Gamyll?’

‘Yes, though not as well as my mother does,’ said Emma. Less interested in the new topic, she went back to fussing with the cloth samples.

‘Do you know the son?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen him for a dozen years or more — not since my wedding, I think. He was little more than a boy then.’

There was a guardedness in her response that Owen wondered about. ‘But you’ve heard of him since then?’

Emma glanced up. ‘My mother has spoken of him, and of course she would not mention him were his character above reproach. He is of interest for being sharp-tongued and wanton.’

‘Wanton?’ Owen was curious.

‘According to Ma he is ill-mannered and un-governed. He does not favour one sinful pastime over another.’ Her sudden grin was impish as she spoke the last words in her mother’s imperial tones.

Lucie laughed and clapped her hands. ‘And we know how you agree with Lady Pagnell.’

Emma’s father had been a knight. Marrying down — it was one of the things she and Lucie had in common, Emma marrying a merchant, Lucie the captain of the archbishop’s guard, and before that an apothecary.

‘So he is likely a bad sort, but no worse than many other idle young men awaiting their inheritances?’ Owen asked.

‘I recall hearing his name mentioned regarding some unpleasant matter,’ said Lucie. ‘I remember only because I thought what a contrast he must be to his father.’

Emma was nodding. ‘I pray the Gamylls are not taking Chancellor Thomas’s side against Nicholas’s school?’

‘I’ve no idea. I am merely curious. His Grace is preparing a letter introducing me to Sir Baldwin.’

‘Oh. That should be helpful.’ Emma looked relieved. ‘As I recall Sir Baldwin’s new wife was not moving to the manor until he returned. She must be a happy woman.’

Owen was glad to leave Lucie and Emma to their cloth samples, having many people to talk to before he returned to prepare for the journey. But at the door he turned, remembering that he’d not wished to disturb Jasper in the shop.

‘I’ve not told Jasper about Weston. The shop was busy.’

‘He will be told,’ said Lucie. ‘I shall enjoy giving him such news — he’ll be delighted. Though I can feel my own worries rising.’

‘I’ll bring him safely home, my love.’

Lucie blew him a kiss.

A biting wind caught Owen’s breath at the street corners, but the snow had not resumed. He thought it wise to pray for a few days of still, mild weather, though November in the North was seldom favoured with such days. At the statue of the Virgin by St Mary’s gates he paused, bowing his head to pray for Drogo’s soul. He noticed that the man beside him wore the abbey livery.

‘Did you know Drogo?’ Owen asked.

‘Aye, and you?’

‘No. Abbot Campian has asked that I try to discover what really happened last night.’

‘Good. That is good. I’m Hal. You’re Captain Archer, aren’t you?’

‘I am. Did you know him well?’

‘As well as any of us on the barges did. He wasn’t much of a talker until he was drinking, and when he was drinking I wanted no part of his company.’

‘Drogo was an angry man in his cups?’

The man nodded. ‘Violent sometimes, which you’ve no doubt already heard.’

Nodding, Owen said, ‘I would like to talk to your fellows on the barges. Would you accompany me?’

‘With pleasure, Captain.’

They were watched with curiosity by the men on the staithe, almost all of whom wore the abbey livery. Hal introduced Owen, and once they understood what he wanted they seemed eager to answer Owen’s questions. Unfortunately they were able to provide little new information. No one recalled seeing Drogo and Master Nicholas together.

‘But he was secretive about many of the trips that took him away down the river,’ said the man who did most of the talking for the group.

Several nodded.

‘Drogo was often away?’ Owen asked, happy to sense in the group an eagerness to talk.

‘Oh, aye,’ said the spokesman. ‘We sometimes wondered why he wore the abbey livery. There are other pilots in the city, but none work as much as he did.’

‘Pilots are paid well, you see, and abbey bargemen live tolerably well,’ said an older man who had been whittling while listening to the others.

Another man said, ‘Yet his wife and daughters wear rags and eat no meat.’

‘Aye, he’s right about that,’ said Hal.

‘He drank his earnings,’ said the spokesman.

The whittler vigorously shook his head. ‘He’d never make it out of bed if he drank so much as that. And the wife and girls are not ragged.’

‘What do you suppose he did with the money?’ Owen let his eye rest on each man in turn, but he saw no sparks of insight. The spokesman merely shrugged. Owen tried another approach. ‘You said he was secretive about many of the trips. Why was that, do you suppose?’

‘He’d talk in riddles,’ said the spokesman.

‘Aye. I stopped asking him,’ said another man. ‘He made no sense.’

‘Smuggling,’ said another, ‘that is what I thought he was about.’

‘Then why not spend the coin?’ asked the spokesman of the others.

‘Mayhap he had another family downriver,’ the whittler suggested with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

‘Not him, Sly Pete,’ said the man sitting next to him. ‘He was the ugliest among us!’

That raised some hearty laughs, though the spokesman remained grim-faced.

‘We have no proof of another family,’ he said.

Owen left them with a plea to come to him or to leave word in the shop about anything they might recall about Drogo, assuring them that anything might be useful.

He could still hear them arguing as he entered the abbey gate. It was quiet once inside, and he was soon in the abbot’s house, comfortably seated in the abbot’s parlour.

After he recounted to Abbot Campian his conversation with the bargemen Owen asked, ‘Why did you maintain him in the livery if he was so often gone? Did you not know about his absences?’

The abbot had listened without apparent interest. Now he frowned a little. ‘I knew. But the others did not complain, and more importantly he was an excellent pilot so he’d been of use to me. When we ship our wool we want it safe.’

It seemed to Owen the abbey was wasting riches better used elsewhere if it retained a pilot/ bargeman who was seldom at his station, but he kept that thought to himself. He was about to take his leave when George Hempe was announced.

Campian glanced at Owen. ‘Would you care to stay?’

‘I would,’ said Owen, curious whether Hempe had learned anything new. He resumed his seat.

Hempe removed his hat as he entered the room, exposing his bald head, which, with his hawk-like nose and dark, beady eyes made him look like a bird of prey. ‘My lord abbot,’ Hempe said in a deep, inflectionless voice as he bowed. Catching sight of Owen as he rose, he said, ‘Archer.’

Owen nodded to him.

‘I am curious what business a city bailiff has with me,’ said the abbot, motioning Hempe to take a seat.

‘The dead man’s wife claims that her home was searched while she and her daughters were at the abbey last night, my lord. I’d hoped you might know whether that was a likely claim.’

Abbot Campian turned to Owen. ‘What say you, Captain?’

Owen was, of course, very interested in this bit of news. ‘How does she know it was searched?’

Hempe almost smiled. ‘So you think it is likely to be true.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Things were moved about, more than a stray animal wandering in might do. A jar was knocked off a high shelf. And the clothes in a chest were in disarray. There was also lamp oil on the floor where there’d been none.’

‘I would guess someone is looking for the contents of young Hubert de Weston’s scrip,’ said Owen.

‘I thought the same.’ Hempe looked down at his feet, then up at the abbot. ‘My lord, was Nicholas Ferriby in the abbey grounds all evening?’

‘Master Nicholas?’ Owen said before the abbot could respond. ‘Drogo’s mates don’t believe he knew the schoolmaster.’

‘He was here all evening,’ said the abbot. ‘He slept here because of the mood of the crowd when he kindly stopped to pray over a dying man.’ The usually impeccably composed Campian flushed a little. ‘Do you suspect a grammar master of ransacking the dead man’s home? What foolishness is this?’ Campian stared at Hempe until the bailiff looked away.

The abbot’s emotion surprised Owen. George Hempe had a rough way about him, but he was respected in the city. Campian must be quite upset about Drogo’s death.

Hempe rose. ‘Forgive me, my lord abbot, I meant no discourtesy. I will call upon Captain Archer with any further questions.’

Campian also rose, slowly shaking his head. ‘It is I who must apologise. I was not aware how disturbed I was by the witless crowd last night. You have had only rumours with which to work. Now the captain can supply you with more accurate details.’ He bowed to both of them. ‘I pray you, go about your good work and return peace to this abbey.’

Owen followed Hempe out of the abbot’s parlour. ‘I’ve never seen the abbot in such a temper,’ said Owen as they walked out into the cold afternoon.

‘No matter.’ Hempe paused and waited until Owen looked at him. ‘What was in the lad’s scrip, Owen?’

‘I still don’t know. But if God wills it, I’ll know soon.’ He told him his plan.

Hempe rubbed his head and then covered it with his felt hat. ‘I don’t like the smell of this, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll tell you something else — I didn’t ask you about Ferriby only because of some gossip trying to excite people. As I left Drogo’s house a lad told me he’d seen the man at Master Nicholas’s school.’ He waited for Owen’s reaction.

Owen cursed. ‘Who was the lad?’

‘Jenkin, Will Carter’s son. To hear Will talk, his son is a wizard and it’s the dean and chancellor’s loss that they did not accept him into the minster grammar school, and Nicholas Ferriby’s good fortune. The lad did seem quick.’

‘Not quick enough to realise he was harming his master by speaking up,’ said Owen. ‘But we must be grateful for his unwitting help. I will want to talk to the lad when I return.’

‘I thought you would.’

Thoresby would not be pleased with this possible connection. Nor was Owen. Nicholas had denied knowing Drogo.

By now they were out on the street just without Bootham Bar. A couple with a cartload of goods and a pair of wealthy merchants on fine horses were waiting to pass through the gate. Owen and Hempe joined the line.

‘I’m relieved that this is in your hands,’ Hempe said.

‘I pray that feeling is justified,’ said Owen, not at all sure himself. He’d spent the better part of a day talking to people but had learned precious little.

He parted with Hempe once through the gate. It was about the time at which Drogo had gone into the river the previous day. How quickly the lives of the pilot’s family had changed. How suddenly life had lost its certainty for them.

In the early hours, with a dusting of snow falling on frozen ground already thinly covered, Jasper shivered and stomped as he waited for Kate to fetch the food she had packed for them.

‘Perhaps you need more clothing,’ Owen said.

Jasper grunted and shook his head. ‘I’m like this in the morning. I cannot get warm, and then when I truly wake I’m comfortable. I’ve always been this way.’

Owen did not recall that about Jasper, but by questioning him he might undo all the good he was accomplishing by taking him along to Weston. They’d had too many arguments of late, the lad being far more sensitive to any perceived slight than he’d been in the past. Owen did not feel safe suggesting anything or asking for assistance in any task — Jasper would take it as a complaint, or criticism. Lucie said he was suffering growing pains, but Owen wondered whether the troublesome Alisoun had something to do with it. He was hoping that this journey might rekindle the old camaraderie he sorely missed with Jasper. In the past they’d enjoyed archery and gardening together, both skills that Owen had taught him — he’d been an enthusiastic student. He missed their comfortable conversations, the delight of being sought out for advice.

They headed for the palace stables, where Rafe and Gilbert were to meet them. Once in the stables Jasper did appear comfortable, though that might have more to do with the warmth from the horses than his clothing. Owen had taught Jasper to ride when they travelled between York and Lucie’s manor of Freythorpe Hadden, and he’d taken to it quite well. But this was a longer ride, and the weather increasingly unpleasant. Owen wondered whether he’d been premature in bringing Jasper. He laughed at himself and resolved to stop fussing about Jasper’s comfort. It appeared that the lad considered himself in good company. He and Rafe, one of Owen’s youngest men and sometimes a bit too gregarious, were discussing the merits of various saddles, and Gilbert had already managed to compliment Jasper, inspiring a proud smile. Owen relaxed. Jasper had been through more in his fourteen years than Owen had been through when he became an archer for the Duke of Lancaster.

Two grooms had been instructed to escort them, leading the horses from the stables and through the city, across the Ouse Bridge and out Micklegate.

Owen walked beside Jasper, who gazed around as if seeing the city for the first time. The bridge particularly seemed to delight him.

‘You’ve crossed the Ouse many times,’ said Owen.

‘I cannot believe I’m here with you, Captain,’ Jasper said, his smile radiant for a moment, after which he self-consciously straightened his mouth and affected a bored expression.

Seven years? Eight? He still called Owen ‘Captain’, never ‘Da’. But neither did he call Lucie ‘Ma’. Perhaps that was asking too much of him, for the lad had deeply loved both his parents, and still mourned them.

‘Sometimes I cannot believe how you’ve grown,’ said Owen. ‘I must remember to take advantage of you while you’re still in the household.’

Out in the countryside the snow brightened the ground, providing contrast with shapely limbs and dark junipers, stone walls and houses. But it also dampened the riders and Owen’s companions all expressed relief when he decided they would stay in Wetherby for the night so that they might reach Hubert’s home in daylight.

While Gilbert and Rafe flirted with the innkeeper’s pretty daughter, Owen and Jasper sat in a corner near a crackling fire and discussed the changes that might occur with the new baby, and whether it made a difference whether it was a boy or girl. Having exhausted that subject, Owen took the opportunity to review with Jasper what he knew about Hubert, Drogo, and Nicholas so far.

‘You think Master Nicholas is lying, don’t you?’ Jasper commented when Owen paused. ‘Do you think it has to do with his school?’

‘You’re a scholar at St Peter’s. Have you any guess what might have been in Hubert’s scrip?’

Jasper, sitting forward with forearms on his thighs, trying to be subtle about stretching his sore muscles, shook his head. ‘Coins, perhaps? I don’t know. What could he have to do with Master Nicholas’s school?’

‘The grammar master is Hubert’s parish priest,’ Owen noted.

Jasper looked up at him. ‘Do you think it was something belonging to Master Nicholas? Something that the dean and chancellor might find helpful, something that would help them close his grammar school?’

This conversation was proving more useful than Owen had anticipated. ‘That might explain why the lad kept it so close to him,’ he said, ‘but what about Drogo? Why would he want it?’

Frowning down at the rushes, Jasper was quiet for a while. Owen went over to his men to remind them that they had a long ride on the morrow, and they might wish to stop drinking now. Gilbert nodded and pushed aside his tankard, but Rafe stared down into his and sighed.

When Owen returned to the snug corner, Jasper was shaking his head.

‘We’ve nothing to suggest what it might have been, do we?’ he asked. ‘Nor why Drogo wanted it.’

Owen agreed. ‘I think it might be best if we forget what we think we know and listen well to whatever Hubert and his mother might have to say. What sounds at first unimportant might be the very detail that will lead us to the truth.’

‘I’ll watch their faces, too,’ said Jasper.

Owen was proud of him. ‘Speaking of faces, it seems to me your face has been saying you’re not fond of Edric. Is he dull witted?’

Jasper ducked his head and mumbled, ‘He’ll do.’

‘I am not chiding you. Just talking. He has said little to me, so I don’t know him well at all.’

‘He works hard and means well,’ said Jasper, ‘but — ’ He sighed.

Owen poked his head close to Jasper’s. ‘Tell me.’

‘We laugh at different things. Have fun different ways. I wouldn’t choose him for a friend.’ He shrugged, and made a face as if certain what he’d said made little sense.

‘I see. He’s not making you unhappy, he’s just not much fun.’

Jasper screwed up his face. ‘I think the worst part is that he tries to be fun.’

Owen laughed. ‘For me, the one who annoys me is Alisoun. She is such a brown, brittle young woman.’

Jasper had straightened and now looked into the fire as he spoke. ‘Hugh and Gwenllian love her.’ His voice was a little tight.

So this was where his trouble lay. Owen and Lucie had wondered whether it might be so. ‘I think you like her as well.’

Jasper shrugged. ‘She can’t be bothered with me since Edric came. We’ve not gone together to St George’s Field to practise at the butts since then, have you noticed?’

Alisoun was a skilled archer, as was Jasper. It was their shared interest that had made possible their friendship. At another time Owen might be relieved to hear that the friendship had soured, both of them needing more maturity, but he heard in Jasper’s voice and saw on his face the distress that he felt. Owen did not wish that on Jasper.

‘Alisoun will soon return to Magda Digby’s service. Edric will have no cause to go there, but you might.’ Owen grinned.

Jasper said nothing. Owen decided he’d pried deep enough and said all that needed to be said.