The Guilt of Innocents

Four

For Lucie it was always so. No matter how often Owen left the city, on his first day away she felt a vague unease and tried to devise work that would so occupy her that by the time she was finished a few days would have passed. But that did not help the nights, unless the work was both physical and mental and she could fall into bed exhausted. In summer a garden project might suffice. The apothecary garden planted by her first husband was extensive, supplied much of what she sold in the shop, and she enjoyed working in it. But in November, in late pregnancy, gardening was out of the question. She was mentally and physically uncomfortable at night. She often treated the children to a night in her bed, but in her stage of pregnancy it was infeasible, for she would keep them awake with her fidgeting about in bed, her pacing, and her occasional tears.

So she was out of sorts after Owen and Jasper’s departure, until she remembered that Edric would need her in the shop most of the day. Once Alisoun departed for her classes and Aunt Phillippa seemed settled with the children, Lucie asked Kate to walk through the garden to the apothecary shop with her. As they passed through the workshop she pointed out a high stool for Kate to carry into the shop.

Edric seemed flustered by the news that Lucie would work beside him all day.

‘But should you stand so long, Dame Lucie?’ He blushed a little.

‘No, and that is why I have this high stool.’

He rushed to take it from Kate and carry it to the counter area. ‘Where shall I place it?’

She indicated a spot. ‘You’ll do the reaching, lifting, rushing about and I’ll sit here and talk to the customers,’ she said, easing herself onto the stool and smoothing out her skirt.

‘I’d best hurry back now,’ said Kate. ‘In case Dame Phillippa becomes confused.

Edric hovered above Lucie in his most irritating way.

She smiled and patted him on the forearm. ‘I will enjoy it. Do not worry about me.’

He fussed over her for a while longer, but eventually, after they’d seen to a few customers, he fell into a rhythm, understanding how their partnering would work.

Nicholas Ferriby broke the quiet of the morning, rushing into the shop and then trying to minimise himself while Lucie and Edric dealt with a customer, Dame Barbara. But being a man expansive in his movements, Nicholas could not help but be a presence in the shop, and his slightly asthmatic wheeze was just loud enough for Dame Barbara to turn to him and offer to return later if he had need of something at once.

‘Oh no, I pray you, forget that I am here,’ he said, holding up his hands palms out as if pressing her back.

Dame Barbara turned back to Lucie with an amused glint in her eye, and when the grammar master swept gracefully into a bow as she departed, she choked back a laugh. What rendered Master Nicholas amusing was that he spoke dully but gestured dramatically, as if his arms betrayed his attempt at a dignified demeanour.

He quickly strode to the counter as if he was in danger of being beaten to it.

‘Master Nicholas,’ said Lucie, ‘I do not expect to see you mid-morning on a school day. I hope you have not come about Alisoun.’

His hands rose up in exclamation. ‘My assistant is with my young scholars for a little while. I’d hoped to see Captain Archer, but an elderly woman at the house informed me that he is away?’

Lucie did not blame him for being uncertain whether to credit her aunt’s information, for Phillippa sounded vague these days. But she had been accurate, which cheered Lucie.

‘Yes, he is, for several days. Might I be of help?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I am grateful to you for asking, but no. I must speak to the captain.’ He pressed his temples and his eyes flitted side to side as if he were listening in distress to warring factions in his head.

Lucie rose. ‘We might withdraw into the workshop. No one will interrupt us or hear us there.’

‘Thank you, no, Dame Lucie. I apologise for disturbing you. I should not have done so.’ He pressed his hands together in prayer. ‘Sometimes I think too much and create problems where none existed. I have been foolish. Please remind Alisoun to inform me when the captain has returned.’ He bowed out of the shop, opening the door so wide that he jammed it into a snow drift.

Edric assisted him in freeing it.

Lucie did not know whether to laugh or worry.

Hubert’s home sat to one side of a broad clearing that sloped away from where Owen had paused at the edge of the wood. It was a long, low house surrounded by several small outbuildings. A pig was the only creature in sight, eyeing what Owen guessed was the kitchen garden. It was so quiet he could hear its snuffling across the clearing. Smoke trickled out from a central hole in the house’s thatched roof. There was more snow on the ground here than there had been in Wetherby, though not so thick as to cover the underbrush, so it was more like lace than a blanket of snow.

‘What a lonely place,’ said Jasper, keeping his voice low.

‘It is not so far from the town,’ said Owen.

‘It is a humble home for one at St Peter’s School,’ said Gilbert.

Owen realised that he did not know Aubrey de Weston’s status, whether he was merely a tenant farmer or Sir Baldwin’s retainer. It seemed a humble home indeed for a retainer. He considered how best to approach.

‘We’ll ride to that first building, where Jasper and I will dismount and go to the house,’ Owen decided. ‘Gilbert, Rafe, find somewhere to tether the animals where they’ll be protected from the wind, if you can, and then join us.’

A track from the building to the house indicated that someone had been here about an hour ago, judging from the fresh snow on the bare patches. Paired with the smoke Owen judged it a sign that someone was at home. That was soon confirmed as he noticed a boy standing in the doorway holding a bow. Fortunately he held it so inexpertly that Owen had no fear of his hitting them.

‘That is Hubert,’ said Jasper.

‘We are friends, not thieves,’ Owen called, holding up his hands to show that he held no weapon. ‘Tell him who you are, Jasper.’

‘It’s Jasper de Melton, from St Peter’s. This is my Da, Captain Archer.’

Owen patted Jasper on the shoulder, more for the two-letter word than for his execution of the order.

Hubert did not lower the bow. ‘Jasper. Why are you here?’ The boy’s voice was reedy and frightened, his face tight with fear. He took a step backwards.

Owen and Jasper stopped a few feet from Hubert. He looked but a child, with tousled red hair, freckles, chapped lips from licking them in the cold wind. He seemed short for a boy of eleven, as if his limbs were not growing at the right pace.

‘Invite them in, son.’ It was a woman’s voice, gentle and friendly.

Hubert turned to look behind him. ‘Ma, are you certain?’

The woman laughed. ‘Quite certain.’

The boy dropped his gaze and let the bow and arrow hang as he stepped aside to allow Owen and Jasper through the door.

‘I am Ysenda de Weston, Hubert’s mother,’ said a pretty woman standing by the fire circle in the middle of the hall, centred in the light from a hanging lantern. It was a dramatic effect in the dimly lit room. She was a small woman with dark eyes and a smile that welcomed attention. From beneath her white cap dark curls strayed — by design, Owen guessed — and her gown was cut to accentuate her curves despite being made from humble cloth. She was a woman who knew how to catch a man’s eye and hold it. What a desolate place for such a woman. ‘I did not hear your names clearly enough.’

Owen introduced himself and Jasper.

‘You are welcome, but I would know what is the matter of your visit?’

‘There has been a death in York that seemed to have some connection with your son’s losing his scrip,’ said Owen, watching Ysenda uneasily glance towards her son. ‘Archbishop Thoresby and Abbot Campian of St Mary’s have asked for my assistance in discovering how the man died.’ He found himself hesitant to say it concerned a murder — her prettiness, no doubt. ‘I hoped that by finding out what Hubert carried in the scrip we might learn something that would help me.’

As he spoke he’d watched Hubert’s reaction, and he was glad of it, for the lad moved into the shadow and stole glances at his mother to see her reaction. Owen guessed that he had not told his mother of the loss.

‘Your scrip, Hubert?’ she looked puzzled. ‘Did I send you with one?’ She lightly laughed, but it rang false. ‘I must have.’ She stepped out of the light and gestured to the benches near the fire circle. ‘Do sit, Captain, Jasper. I’ll fetch cider to quench your thirst.’

She withdrew, grabbing a wrap from the wall by a door opposite the one through which they’d entered.

‘As we’ve arrived without notice, and there are two others with us, I assure you we do not expect hospitality,’ said Owen.

‘Two others?’

‘I left them to tether the horses out of the wind.’

Ysenda glanced towards the door with a worried look and for a moment Owen thought her face was swollen and bruised on one side. ‘We’ve enough cider to last a good long while,’ she said. ‘I keep it cold behind the house. Hubert, fetch the bowls.’ She slipped out the door.

The boy set his weapon aside and did as he was told, pulling four bowls from a cabinet against the far wall and setting them down on a stool near the fire. His hands shook.

Ysenda returned, carrying a large jug. Glancing at the bowls, she said, ‘Four? The captain’s men are here. Open the door for them and then bring two more bowls.’

Gilbert and Rafe entered and quietly moved a bench away from the others towards the door and settled there.

Hubert chose a seat in the shadows, but Owen moved one of the hanging lanterns so that the four by the fire could see one another. In this wider light he saw that one side of Ysenda’s fair face was indeed swollen and bruised. She had been careful to keep that side away from them until now. Ysenda de Weston intrigued him.

Noticing his gaze, she lifted a hand to cover her cheek. A strip of cloth on her sleeve hung down, revealing a tear. She did not seem a woman who would delay mending her carefully tailored gown.

‘I shall not ask about your eye if you’ll not ask about my cheek, Captain.’ She spoke in a teasing voice as she bent over to pour the cider.

Though Owen was sick to death of explaining how he’d lost the sight in his left eye, he did not wish to agree to her deal; but she had made it so that he would appear rude if he did not. She was clever. He wondered why she needed to be so clever.

‘Agreed,’ he said with a little bow. ‘Before we begin, I wondered whether you would prefer to have your husband present.’

Ysenda looked startled. Hubert almost spilled the bowls he was carrying to Gilbert and Rafe.

‘Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’d heard your husband survived La Rochelle.’

She bowed her head, hand to heart. ‘It is true that Aubrey was no longer there when the Spanish attacked. He is alive. He’s come home.’ She lifted her head, tears in her eyes. ‘And gone again.’

Hubert put an arm around her. ‘He doesn’t deserve your tears, Ma,’ the boy said.

Owen wondered whether that was part of the story behind her injury and the torn sleeve.

‘I beg your pardon for intruding on you like this, without warning,’ he said. ‘We will not stay long. Jasper, tell them of the event that brought us here.’ Coming from a friend of Hubert’s it might seem less threatening, Owen thought. Mother and son seemed on their guard and he did not think they would say much unless he was able to ease their fears.

Jasper cleared his throat and, with an expression of dismay, asked, ‘You mean at the staithe?’

‘Aye, just that, and you might include Master Nicholas’s unfortunate charity.’

‘Father Nicholas our vicar?’ Ysenda asked.

Owen nodded. ‘Jasper?’

With admirable clarity Jasper thoroughly described the events of two nights past. As his son spoke, Owen observed Ysenda fidgeting, and seeming at one point to have difficulty catching her breath. When Jasper had finished his account, Hubert and his mother exchanged looks, hers agitated and his sullen.

‘What could you have carried that a pilot might desire?’ asked Ysenda, reaching for Hubert’s hand. ‘I sent you with nothing of that nature.’

Hubert dropped his head, chin to chest. ‘I wanted something of yours with me at school,’ he said, his voice muffled by his posture.

‘I have nothing of value,’ she said, but her tone subtly changed on the last two words. ‘What did you take, Hubert?’ Her voice was suddenly sharper. ‘Have you brought the scrip, Captain?’

‘No. It is safe in the city,’ said Owen.

The boy looked up at Jasper and Owen. ‘I don’t know why a pilot would want it,’ he said in a child’s whine. ‘It must have slipped out and he didn’t even know he handed back the scrip without it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Owen, ‘but we still need you to tell us what it was. I’m sure you can see the importance in our knowing.’

Hubert took a deep breath, and still not facing his mother he said, ‘It was a little gold cross.’

Ysenda’s intake of breath at last drew her son’s eyes.

‘I swear by all the saints you’ll have another, Ma.’

‘Oh Hubert, you have no wealth, nothing.’ She dropped his hand and turned away from him with a muttered curse.

He looked shattered.

‘What did you mean to do with it?’ she asked, tight-lipped, forgetting to be charming for her guests.

‘It was like a charm, to give me good fortune, to have something of yours with me.’ The boy had resumed talking to his lap, and did not notice his mother’s hand rise once more. But he felt the slap. Holding his cheek and staring at her with wide eyes, he whimpered, ‘I was so afraid for you when I lost it, that’s why I came home. I was afraid losing it meant you were hurt, or — dead.’

She stared at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘You foolish boy,’ she breathed. ‘Why am I so punished?’ she asked the fire.

‘Was it valuable, Dame Ysenda?’ Owen asked.

She raised her eyes to his, but did not seem to focus on him. ‘Gold is,’ she snapped, then moaned, ‘God help us.’ She brought a hand to her mouth and shook her head, as if arguing with herself, then sighed loudly. ‘What went through his head?’ she whispered as if Hubert were not there. Her features had somehow hardened.

‘Had you ever taken the cross out when you were outside the Clee, Hubert?’ Owen asked.

The boy shook his head, still with hand to cheek, although Owen did not think the slap had been delivered with enough strength to truly injure him, merely his pride and his faith in his mother’s love for him.

‘Did any of the other students know what you kept in the scrip?’ Owen asked.

‘None of them, but Dame Agnes knew. I couldn’t keep it from her.’

‘Did she talk to you about it?’ Owen asked, although he could not imagine a more unlikely culprit.

‘It was a small thing,’ Ysenda interposed, indicating something in length less than two joints of her smallest finger and one joint wide. ‘My husband gave it to me when he knew he was leaving. I do not know where he bought something so fine, or with what. But I did not dare ask.’

‘Had you worn it?’ Owen asked.

She shook her head, and to Hubert she said, ‘You are a sly one,’ in a cold voice.

‘I didn’t want to leave you,’ Hubert cried. ‘I told you I didn’t want to. I worried about you all alone.’

‘And I told you that it wasn’t your place to worry about me.’ Ysenda looked away from her son, making an impatient, angry sound in her throat.

‘Do you think your husband will return soon?’ Owen asked.

Ysenda turned her pretty face — once more seeming gentle — towards him, tilting the injured side towards the light. ‘I doubt that even Aubrey can predict that, Captain.’ She rose. ‘I am sorry that I cannot offer you beds for the night — in case he should return and accuse me …’ Her voice trembled and she looked away.

Perhaps it was this that made mother and son uneasy, that they both feared the father’s return.

‘Was he drunk?’

It was Hubert who answered. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been sober, Captain. He’s a beast to Ma.’

‘It wouldn’t be the cross he was angry about?’

Hubert shook his head. ‘Ma didn’t know it was gone till you came. He doesn’t need a reason.’

‘Enough, son,’ said Ysenda in a sweet voice. She moved behind him and put her hands on Hubert’s shoulders. ‘If my husband finds out about the cross I don’t know what he’ll do. I’ll never tell him that Hubert lost it.’ She bent to kiss the top of his head.

Hubert wiped away tears with his sleeve.

‘Will Hubert be returning to St Peter’s?’ Owen asked.

The boy twisted round to see his mother’s face, shaking his head.

‘But he must,’ she said, ignoring Hubert. ‘St Mary’s Abbey has been so generous to sponsor him.’ She took a deep breath, patted her son’s shoulders. ‘That is where he belongs now, where he will learn about the world.’

‘Ma,’ Hubert began to rise.

But she held him down as she shook her head at his imploring expression. ‘It has always been my dream for you, as soon as I saw how quickly you learned.’

‘He is well thought of at school,’ said Jasper, ‘and well liked by all of us.’

Ysenda smiled at Jasper. ‘You are a kind boy. God bless you. There, Hubert, you’ve made me proud. You are doing well in school.’

Hubert had given up trying to implore her and sat with his chin on his chest. By his uneven breath Owen knew the boy was trying hard not to embarrass himself by crying in front of them. Poor lad.

‘Why did you boys go to the staithe?’ Ysenda asked Jasper, her tone sharp, disapproving. ‘What lured you?’

Jasper took a moment to respond. ‘I can tell you why I did. I don’t like to feel left behind, to listen to the others talking about some fun I didn’t share with them. I would never go there otherwise, except if something special were being unloaded. Or the king’s barge were expected.’

Hubert had lifted his head as Jasper spoke. He tried to smile. ‘He’s right,’ Hubert said. He turned to his mother. ‘I never thought I would lose it. Never.’

‘He kept the scrip with him all the time,’ said Jasper.

Ysenda forced a smile for Jasper, but her eyes were dark with what Owen could only guess was fear. ‘I can see my son has a true friend in you. I am more determined than ever that he should return to school.’ She turned to Owen. ‘I would ask a favour, that you take him with you?’ It was a soft, breathless query, as if she feared refusal.

‘I would, gladly.’

‘No!’ cried Hubert. ‘You’ve — what if Father comes back? Who will protect you, Ma?’

It might mean nothing, but the boy hesitated before saying ‘father’, and it seemed odd that he used the informal ‘ma’ but the more formal ‘father’. Perhaps Owen was merely sensitive to that at the moment. Jasper had called him ‘da’. He smiled to himself.

‘The days are so short now, you cannot ride far before nightfall, Captain,’ said Ysenda. ‘Is it possible — I would not ask such a favour but that you are here — if you are biding in Weston tonight, would you return for Hubert in the morning? As you can see, I must convince him that this is best for both of us.’

Rafe was shaking his head, but Owen did not intend to miss the opportunity to have the lad close at hand. ‘We will come for him in the morning,’ he said.

As they walked towards the horses, Jasper asked, ‘Did you think they were hiding something?’

‘Half truths and poor play-acting,’ said Owen. ‘You have a good nose for this, son.’

Jasper looked pleased. ‘What will we do now?’

‘I would like to talk to someone at the Gamyll manor. We might even find Aubrey de Weston there.’

‘Hubert hates him.’

‘I noticed.’

Rafe and Gilbert were discussing Ysenda’s charms when Owen and Jasper joined them by the horses.

‘It’s a sin for a man to hit such a beautiful face,’ Rafe said.

‘But not a plain one?’ Owen asked, releasing the reins of his horse. ‘Come, men. We’ve more to do before sundown.’ His men often irritated him with their empty chatter, but he disliked it even more when Jasper was there to hear it.

As he sat on his horse waiting for Rafe to get his bearings, Owen glanced back at the house. Someone stood at the door, peering out. He thought about Ysenda’s obvious fear and prayed he was not a fool to leave them alone for the night.

The great stone walls encircling York stopped on either side of the Ouse, a tidal river that ebbed and flowed, and flooded whenever the myriad streams in the moors and dales ran fast with melting snow or heavy rains. All vessels on the part of the river bisecting the city rode the changes, high in the water when the tide was in, trapped in the mudflats at very low tides. To live on such a watercourse or along its banks was to internalise the one certainty in life — that nothing was permanent.

Magda Digby, midwife, healer, a gifted woman of youthful old age, lived in a house capped with an upside-down Viking vessel as if ever ready to carry her away on a flood. New acquaintances inevitably suggested that, but Magda only smiled, never explaining her choice of roof. Her home sat on a rock near the north shore just outside the city walls and beyond the Abbey Staithe, upriver from the city, downriver from the Forest of Galtres. At high tide the rock became an island, and in floods the dried reeds she’d spread on the floor inside were often swept away. Yet the structure stood, as if it were hovering over the rock, or was an insubstantial mirage. The dragon on the prow, glaring upside down towards land, added to the mystery of the house.

Her ever-shifting ‘yard’ suited Magda. It was as changeable as the folk she tended. In flood time she hoisted her few pieces of furniture up to the rafters and went journeying, gifting the housebound and the lonely with her presence. She saw no reason to cling to her rock and worry. If her home were swept away, then she would seek another that suited her. It was not perfect. She knew full well there was no such thing as perfection.

Out on her rock she felt free to go about her life according to her own moral code. She was not a Christian; she followed her own spiritual path. A few considered her dangerous, imagining that she cast spells. Only a few. Those timid about seeking healers within the city or their towns or villages knew where to find her, and trusted that their secrets were safe with Magda. She turned no one away if they appeared to be in need — she did not rely on their requesting aid, but watched their eyes and the flow of their movements, listened closely to their breath as they spoke. She often understood what people needed long before they did.

November was often a travelling time for Magda, but the stormy season had been quieter than usual, so she was still in residence. By late afternoon the dusk seemed but a continuation of the sunless day. It was that hour when, weary and oddly disoriented, the carpenter hammered his own finger, the tawyer spilled the alum, the cordwainer pricked himself, the apothecary mismeasured, the confessor momentarily nodded off and missed the sinner’s most anxious confession. Magda Digby stepped out of her dim, smoky house to rest her eyes and enjoy the braw wind she’d noted gusting occasionally through the chinks in the wattle and daub and down the smoke hole. The snow of the previous day had warmed and soaked into the earth, but it felt as if more might fall. Once she’d studied the sky and reckoned the time, she moved her gaze to the river, noticing that the water was being forced upriver against the current — the tide was coming in.

It was carrying something that she did not like to see. Upon the roiling waters a body bobbed towards her, pushed towards shore on the incoming tide. The water moved the limbs gracefully, if unnaturally.

An uninvited visitor, and the beginning of much trouble, Magda thought. She fetched her shepherd’s crook and placed herself where she might attempt a capture. She could see now that the body was that of a man. It gave her pause, for she was short, and though strong enough for a woman of her size, she might be overwhelmed by the man’s greater weight. But a few moments more or less meant the difference between life and death in the cold currents. Taking a deep breath she braced herself, stretched out the crook, and managed to hook him by an armpit. She used the cooperative motion of the water to her advantage, slowly guiding him towards her, and then patiently waited until another strong surge lifted him enough that she was able to manoeuvre the body onto her rock.

Sitting back to rest a moment, she checked the water for signs of other bodies, or debris from a capsized boat. But she saw nothing else amiss.

Crouching down to him, she noted he wore well-made clothes, nothing fancy. She did not recognise him. More important at present was his condition. His eyes were closed. She put one hand to his neck, feeling for a pulse, while gently opening one of his eyes with the other. She felt a faint heartbeat, which tempted her to hurry. But before turning him over to push the water from his lungs, she took a good look at him so that she did not unwittingly ignore anything that needed her attention. His left sleeve was slashed on the forearm and stained with blood. Leaning closer, she saw that it was a clean, fresh cut. Now she turned him over and found the smaller, but far more sinister slash in the upper back of his tunic, between the shoulder blades. Blood stains radiated outward like the rays of the sun, but this was a dark, dark thing. She massaged the water out of his lungs, unable to prevent the blood from oozing. She did not like his losing more blood, but it was more important that she help him breathe deeply and cleanly than stanch his blood. She searched her memory for a match to his face, gradually realising that she’d known him as a lad, which was why his face was both familiar and unfamiliar. Nigel.

As water dribbled from his mouth Magda felt a shiver travel through him, but it was weak, and she reckoned such a feeble spark would not carry him through the night. The temptation to hurry faded in her. There was nothing for her to do but make his last hours as comfortable as she might.

His eyelids fluttered. ‘I am thirsty,’ he said, weakly lifting his arm as if to catch her attention. ‘So thirsty.’

Such a weak voice, Magda thought. ‘Thou has been in the Ouse,’ she said, speaking to hold him present. ‘Thou hast had thy fill of water. But Magda will bring thee something good to sip.’

With visible effort, his jaw clenching, he opened his eyes a little, but fell back at once, and seemed to sink deeper within.

Sitting back on her heels, Magda considered his condition. Such a wound would have bled greatly, even more so if the heart was pierced. No wonder there was so little life left in him. The river had washed away much of his blood. There would always be some of this unfortunate man in the Ouse.

He was the bailiffs’ business now. She spied two boys on the north bank watching her.

‘Is it a floater?’ one boy cried.

‘Aye. Fetch Magda a bailiff, lads. And a priest.’

Nudging one another with excitement, the pair nodded and ran off, apparently comfortable that the victim was none of their kin.

Innocence gave them a pragmatism they’d lose all too soon. Magda sighed and wondered whether she should find another to send for Owen Archer. But she need not. He would know soon enough. She sensed that Nigel’s injuries were connected to the death of the pilot Drogo. She felt it in her bones.

She crouched beside the man and lifted his head, dripping some wine into his mouth. He took little, and she saw that he was too near death to benefit from more prodding and discomfort. Gently rolling him in some warm hides, getting him close to the house and beneath the eaves, she went back inside to her work.

In Weston they had learned the way to Sir Baldwin’s manor, and now, in the waning light, Owen and his party rode there. The snow had stopped, but the wind was the sort that rattles the bare tree limbs and carries a memory of wolf calls. Owen prayed that they were welcomed at the manor for the night, even an outbuilding would do. If they must make camp outside the fire would take much tending on a night such as this.

Dogs sounded their approach, rushing out from the stables. A leather-clad man with the straight, strong bearing of a fighting man followed the dogs out into the yard. He calmly watched the four come to a halt.

‘What trouble brings armed men into my yard?’ he asked with authority but no malice.

Owen dismounted, assisted by a groom who had hurried out from the stables.

‘I am Owen Archer, captain of Archbishop Thoresby’s guard, and this is my son Jasper, and my men Gilbert and Rafe.’ From beneath his travelling cloak Owen drew the letter of introduction that Michaelo had provided. ‘Am I speaking to Sir Baldwin Gamyll?’ One of the dogs circled tightly around him, sniffing out his character.

‘I am Sir Baldwin.’ The man’s hat covered most of his hair, but his stylishly forked beard was mostly grey, and he bore the usual wrinkles of a grey-haired man as well as a still red scar that puckered the flesh between his right eye and ear.

Owen handed him the letter.

Jasper, upon dismounting, was surrounded by the circling dogs. He squatted down, holding out his hand. They came closer, curious, and soon allowed him to rub their ears.

‘God be thanked for your safe return, Sir Baldwin,’ said Owen. ‘Many with such a wound would not have returned home.’

Baldwin met Owen’s eye. ‘Or I might have lost the eye, as you did. Come, there is a good fire in my hall and we can talk in comfort. The archbishop does not send his captain so far on a mere whim. I am honoured to serve you.’

Jasper rose with an air of regret about leaving his new friends.

It was a sturdy house and large, with a stone undercroft and a substantial storey of wattle and daub above. A covered stair led to the hall door. The dogs ran ahead of them up the steps to a woman who crouched to greet each dog, then stood and invited the party into the hall. Owen guessed her to be much younger than Sir Baldwin, but not his daughter, not with the looks they gave one another.

‘Lady Gamyll,’ Owen said with a bow of his head as he passed her, and she smiled as she nodded back.

Sir Baldwin introduced them.

Within the hall, wall sconces and a blazing fire gave off a welcoming glow. Owen and his companions would be blessed indeed if Sir Baldwin and his lady permitted them to spend the night in a corner of this hall.

Lady Gamyll called for wine and some food, and instructed a servant to help the guests remove their boots. Sir Baldwin had moved over to the fire, where he stood reading the letter. When Owen joined him, Baldwin handed back the letter and gestured to Owen to have a seat.

‘Have you gone to the lad’s home?’ he asked, settling down across from Owen.

‘We have come from there.’

Baldwin gave a little laugh. ‘You won’t have received a welcome from Aubrey.’ He lifted his arms as a large, dark cat leaped up onto his lap. ‘Agrippa has missed me,’ he said, fondly petting him. ‘But back to Aubrey, he hates any man to come within yards of Ysenda.’

‘He was not there,’ said Owen.

‘Not there,’ Baldwin said, and sighed. The cat turned round three times and then settled. Baldwin stroked him again then scratched him beneath the chin. ‘I wonder what he’s about on a day like this?’

‘Dame Ysenda has a bruised and swollen face and seems uncertain whether or not Aubrey will return. But I think she fears his return more than his desertion.’

Baldwin cursed. ‘For months he talks of nothing but his love for his wife, and when he returns he beats her. The man is a wastrel — he is wasting the time he has with her, such a beautiful woman, so — ’ He stopped himself, seeming to realise he’d said more than was called for, but then added, ‘That too-fortunate wastrel,’ as if he could not help himself.

His outburst intrigued Owen, and noticing the pale red that lingered beneath the predominant grey hair he wondered about Baldwin’s relationship with Ysenda de Weston.

Lady Gamyll had withdrawn to the kitchen, Owen presumed. He was glad she’d been spared her husband’s awkward moment.

Baldwin rubbed the cat’s ears. ‘The pity of it is, Aubrey is a good man, loyal, a skilled woodsman, and a man of faith.’ His voice was now merely conversational. ‘But the moment he is within sight of her, he is changed. I believe he both loves and despises her and it has eaten at his heart. They are poison to each other.’

‘Poor Hubert,’ said Jasper, joining them.

Baldwin smiled at Jasper. ‘Do not hurry into manhood. Enjoy this time of innocence. You are still free of love’s confusion. Be at peace.’

Owen wondered whether Baldwin had ever so fallen under a woman’s spell. He suspected so.