The Guilt of Innocents

Six

Hubert observed his mother humming as she swept up the snow and mud that the captain and Jasper had tracked in; her happy mood disturbed him. He’d thought she would be humbled and worried about the loss of Sir Baldwin’s cross, and worried about Aubrey’s disappearance as well, even though at the same time glad he was not there. But she appeared to be light of heart. That bothered Hubert.

He was sick at heart for having taken something that had not even belonged to his mother. His relief about the possibility that the cross might yet be found and returned to Sir Baldwin was quickly fading. His having lost what not only belonged to their lord but was also of value to the entire parish felt like an unbearably heavy guilt. He’d already feared he’d never make amends for having worn the scrip, tempting the pilot and unwittingly leading him to the action that caused his death. He wondered whether Drogo had shown the cross to someone, and they’d decided they wanted it for themselves and killed him for it. Perhaps Drogo had meant to return the cross in the scrip, but by then the other man had taken it and cut Drogo with the poisoned blade. Hubert felt like he’d awakened in a nightmare and could not find his way out, but it was even worse, for it wasn’t just a horrible dream, it was real.

Worst of all was his confusion about his mother’s state of grace. Jasper had been right when he’d said that parents did not credit their children with half the knowledge they possessed — his mother didn’t. He was as certain as he could be that his mother had not lost a child of late. She had not been large with child before he departed for York — he knew that because he’d hugged her often, and tightly, and he’d also caught sight of her bathing in the beck on Sir Baldwin’s manor grounds. He would have seen or felt if she’d been with child, and he’d felt nothing out of the ordinary. It followed that he could not account for her having the birthing cross hidden among her things. She should not have had it. And he would be willing to make a bold wager that women had needed the cross in that time, and yet no one had come to her seeking it, so that meant to him that no one had known of her supposed pregnancy. Hubert did not like what he was thinking, that his mother was up to something sinful, even if it was only wanting a pretty thing that wasn’t hers.

To his shame he found himself regretting that he had not departed with the captain and Jasper.

He picked up the buckets to take to the well, but his mother asked him to stay a moment. Setting aside the broom she came to sit near where he stood and patted a stool nearby.

‘Just a moment, Hubert. Someone the three of you talked about, the bargeman who stole the scrip. What was his name?’

She had to look up at him because he had not sat down. He itched to escape into the fresh air.

‘His name was Drogo,’ he said. ‘Why?’ He could not make out her expression as she craned her neck, but he did not wish to sit. ‘Do you know a Drogo?’ He did not really want to hear more, but he must know.

She shrugged, trying to seem indifferent, but she’d reacted almost as if it hurt to hear the name. ‘I was merely curious. Now off with you. I can see that you are eager to be without, to stretch your growing bones.’

Hubert hitched up the buckets and continued out, but once he’d passed the outbuildings, he set down his load and breathed great lungs full of the brisk air, trying to ease his trembling and nausea. He prayed that he was wrong about his mother, that she hadn’t stolen the cross.

In the morning Kate had called Alfred inside to break his fast with the family, and then Magda had ordered him off to the barracks to sleep.

‘Thou needst not watch Magda and the captain’s family during the day,’ she’d assured him. ‘Nosy neighbours will keep the household safe.’

Shortly afterwards, when Lucie and Edric had gone to the shop and Alisoun off to school, Magda settled down with her old friend Phillippa, who was still quite clear in her head this morning. She chose a spot not too far from the children, who were quietly playing with Kate, though far enough that she and Phillippa could quietly discuss Alisoun. By merely observing Alisoun for the past few hours Magda could see that the children loved her and responded to her with an ease that bespoke a firm but loving hand on her part, so as a children’s nurse she was satisfactory. But that came as no surprise as Alisoun had held that post in the households of several of her kin before she’d insisted that she wanted only to apprentice to Magda.

Why she wished to be a midwife and healer was a puzzle to Magda, for Alisoun seemed judgemental and impatient with the fully grown. She had followed Magda’s orders in nursing Lucie back to health, but she had not managed it without complaints from her patient and others in the household. When Magda instructed her in preparing healing potions and powders she would often argue, skip steps, or pay no heed to the order in which she added ingredients. But what most disturbed Magda was her apparent lack of any compulsion to be of help to people. She must be told that someone needed help, she did not see that and act of her own will. And yet Magda’s usually reliable feelings were that there was a healer somewhere within Alisoun.

Phillippa told Magda how Alisoun had shifted her affections from Jasper to Edric, and how plainly jealous she was of Edric’s admiration for Lucie.

‘She is causing much unease in this house morning and evening,’ said Phillippa.

‘She knows that a wet nurse is soon to supplant her,’ said Magda. Once again she resolved to talk to the girl.

‘I do hope that the wet nurse can also take care of Gwenllian and Hugh,’ said Phillippa. ‘God has made it so that I cannot be counted on to help with them, though I love them with all my being.’

Magda patted her friend’s bony hand. ‘Thou wast a mother to Lucie most loving and skilled in healing. Thou hast done thy part. Magda has also done her part. She has arranged for Kate’s cousin Maud, who was recently widowed and has an infant to raise, to be nurse for all three children, and wet nurse if Lucie’s milk ceases. Kate has promised to keep it a secret until Magda feels the time is right to tell thy niece.’ The wet nurse requirement had been an excuse to let Alisoun go. Lucie had always nursed her own children, which she had the freedom to do having not wed a knight like her father. ‘Maud is eager to meet the children and join the household in which her cousin serves.’

‘Kate’s sister was a great help to me at Freythorpe. God be praised, they seem a hardworking family,’ said Phillippa. ‘I know you’re going to say God had nothing to do with it, but I believe otherwise.’

Magda sniffed. It was exactly what she’d been about to say. She must be growing old if she repeated herself so often that Phillippa knew what she would say. Maybe she did need an apprentice. But was Alisoun the one? She’d waited for more than a year for the girl to prove herself compassionate and perceptive, but she’d seen no sign in all that time. Yet she must now discuss Alisoun’s future with her.

A knock at the street door sent Gwenllian and Hugh racing to answer it, but Kate had reached the door first and shooed the two in Magda and Phillippa’s direction.

From the doorway Magda heard Kate say, ‘No, the captain is away.’

Sensing a tension, Magda hurried to the door. Kate began to explain, but Magda recognised the woman on the doorstep.

‘Dame Alice. What a pity thou hast crossed the river to see Captain Archer and he is not here. Might Magda help thee? Or Dame Lucie?’ She wondered what the tanner’s wife wanted with Owen.

Alice was a timid woman, but she knew Magda, having needed her as midwife many times, though most of her many children had not lived past their first years, being a sickly family. She stood apologetically hunched into herself, her eyes wide with the anticipation of trouble, though she tweaked her mouth into a brief smile on seeing Magda.

‘I heard about the apprentice who died last even, pulled from the river,’ she took a deep breath, ‘and that Captain Archer might be looking for the murderer.’

Well aware that Owen could have no knowledge of the most recent murder, Magda said, ‘Thou hast guessed rightly. If thou hast something to tell him, thou canst trust it to Magda.’

‘God bless you, Dame Magda, for it was all I could do to find a friend to watch the children once.’

Magda invited her to step into the hall, and sat down on a bench near the door.

Alice shuffled in, and only then did Magda realise she was with child again, poor woman. It might be time to teach her how to avoid quickening. Her boots were worn to nothing — and she a tanner’s wife. She shook out her skirts as she sat down, shedding mud and what looked like dried vomit onto Kate’s clean floor.

Phillippa limped over to ask whether Alice would like something warm to drink, and receiving a shy nod she went to fetch it.

‘Now, Dame Alice, what dost thou know about the dead man?’

‘I don’t know that it’s of use, but it seems to me it was likely him I saw yesterday afternoon. Two men were down on the bank near the Old Baile just as the tide was boiling up the river — a storm surge it looked like. I thought to warn them.’ Alice paused to take the bowl of mulled cider Phillippa brought her. ‘Bless you, Goodwife,’ she said, tears forming in her frightened, tired eyes.

Phillippa smiled, bobbed her head, and limped away. Magda sensed that her old friend was about to slip into confusion again.

But it was Alice she must attend. ‘Who was on the riverbank, Dame Alice?’

‘Two men. Arguing. One was finely dressed, a youngish man, and the other I guessed to be his servant, perhaps the same age, perhaps a wee bit younger, dressed plainly. They were flailing their arms as they argued and I thought it best not to call out. But I was curious and looked again, and now I did not see the plainly dressed one, just the fine young man climbing up from the mud and brushing off his gloved hands.’ She stopped abruptly to sip the cider, wiggling her toes which must have begun to thaw.

‘How many weeks toswollen art thou?’

Alice pressed her lower back with her free hand. ‘This one will come in mid-spring, I think.’

Too late to stop it safely for such a worn woman. ‘Magda will bring thee a rub for thy back, to ease it as thou swells.’

‘God bless you, Dame Magda.’ Alice took another sip.

‘Thou dost not know either man?’

Alice shook her head. ‘No.’ After weak laughter she said, ‘I heard the one who died was a goldsmith’s apprentice. Why would I ever meet such a one? But I reckon he was the one I thought a servant. The other — ’ She shook her head again. ‘Such a man did not notice me even when I was my prettiest, many bairns ago.’

‘Canst thou describe the finer one?’

‘He was straight-backed and quick on his feet, and it might be that he is fair-haired, but it might have been part of his hat that looked so. It was trimmed in fur and feathers.’

She might be describing any one of a number of men in York. ‘Why hast thou come to tell the captain this? Thou didst not know either man, nor wast anyone to know of thy witnessing the argument.’

With a little shrug, Alice said, ‘I hoped Dame Lucie would give me a draught for my night cough. It wakes me all the night. My husband says I have no need to spend what little we have on that.’

Magda silently cursed the man who valued his cock over all else. ‘That will be thy digestion, not unusual in thy condition. Tell Dame Lucie what thou hast done and she will not charge thee.’

‘You are kind, Dame Magda.’

‘Thou hast done a good deed that should be repaid,’ said Magda.

They talked a while longer, Alice describing how that part of the riverbank was seldom busy with people because the mud was particularly deep there, and then Magda saw her out with a promise to tell Owen all Alice had said. She would, too, for it was possible that poor Alice had been the last to see Nigel the apprentice alive. She wondered who the gloved man with the fancy hat might be. For if the other had been Nigel, this one might be the murderer. She wondered how many men with feathered and furred hats had been seen in the city recently.

‘Amélie is late. Why does she linger so long in the garden? What can she be thinking, letting Lucie run wild?’ Phillippa had risen to pace the hall, wringing her hands and worrying about something that had happened in the past. Amélie was Lucie’s mother, who’d died long ago.

‘Who is Amélie?’ Gwenllian asked Magda. ‘Why is Aunt Pippa so angry?’

‘Thy aunt is confused,’ said Magda. ‘Shall we sing to soothe her?’

Gwenllian shook her head so hard her dark curls wildly danced about her head, and her dark eyes were frightened. Magda knew that the child’s curiosity would only confuse Phillippa more, so she drew her friend out to the kitchen, asking Gwenllian to mind her little brother.

‘Magda would like thy company whilst she talks to cook, old friend,’ she said to Phillippa.

‘I should never have let her marry,’ said Phillippa as they crossed the walkway to the kitchen, still within the hearing of those in the hall.

Magda chuckled. Gwenllian would drive Kate mad with questions when next she fed her.

‘Who is this girl?’ Phillippa demanded when she spied Kate rolling out dough. ‘Are you the new kitchen maid?’

Kate was accustomed to the elderly woman’s confused states. ‘I’m a hard worker, Dame Phillippa, and not so above myself that I complain about scrubbing and fussing with the straw.’

Phillippa sniffed. ‘I’ll be watching you, and I’ll be the judge of your value.’

With a smile and a little curtsey, Kate acknowledged her comment and returned to her dough. Magda approved of her and was glad that the young widow Maud, soon to join the household as the children’s nurse, was her kin. Kate’s sister Tildy had worked in the house before her. They were a poor family, all entering into service as soon as they were old enough. Tildy was now living at Freythorpe Hadden, Lucie’s inheritance, the manor young Hugh would claim when he was of age. Tildy had married the steward and in a short while had borne several healthy children. It was a pity that Phillippa could not manage that household, as she had for her brother, Lucie’s father, for many years. Magda knew that with this elderly confusion it was best if the person could remain in their most familiar surroundings. But Phillippa needed closer watching than Tildy could manage, and Lucie was very good with her.

A sack of roots and dried herbs that Magda had brought as trade for Lucie’s hospitality soon absorbed Phillippa with the very familiar routine of tying the herbs to the rafters and brushing the roots clean, then storing them.

They’d not been there too long when through the open doors Magda heard George Hempe’s deep voice. She patted Kate on the arm and went out to meet the man, shutting the hall door so that Phillippa would not get curious and wander in.

The hawk was almost humorously angry, standing with legs wide, hands on hips, as though he ruled there. He’d apparently been civil to Gwenllian and Hugh, who seemed proud to have greeted him at the door.

Magda asked Gwenllian to entertain Hugh at the far end of the hall for just a little longer. The girl’s dimpled smile was reassuring. She was enjoying the responsibility.

‘You should have sent word that you’d come here last night, Dame Magda,’ Hempe said once Gwenllian had led Hugh away.

‘Was it not a wise decision, Bailiff?’

‘The matter is not whether it was wise, but that I’ve wasted the morning searching for you.’

‘Thou wilt be repaid with helpful news. Sit down and listen to Magda.’ She told him about Nicholas Ferriby’s odd visit to Lucie and Alice Tanner’s tale of the men on the riverbank. ‘The one might well be the murderer.’

His face relaxed as he listened. ‘A hat like that has surely been noticed by someone. I am most grateful to you, Dame Magda.’ He rose. ‘Will you stay here for a few more nights?’

‘Until the captain returns. Alfred has vowed to set night watches on this house until such time.’

‘Owen’s return will not make your solitary home safe,’ said the hawk. ‘I suggest you stay here until we have Nigel’s murderer.’

Magda wagged her head. ‘Thy advice will be considered.’

‘You will slow me down if I am worried about you.’

He was getting angry again, which amused Magda.

‘A bailiff of York worried about Magda, who does not live in his city.’ She shook her head and tsked, then let out a barking laugh. ‘Thou art so like a hawk when thou’rt angry! Thou mightst sprout wings. Magda takes orders from neither bird nor man, Bailiff. But thou seemst to Magda a good, honourable fellow, so she will consider thy advice, as she said she would.’

‘You are a contrary woman.’ Hempe seemed about to explode, but bowed to her and thanked her for her help.

Grateful that he was not staying to argue, Magda saw him off and then returned to the kitchen, where Phillippa was quietly and efficiently completing her sorting and cleaning.

Kate smiled. ‘You bring calm with you, Dame Magda. It is a gift.’ Of course she was relieved that Phillippa was absorbed and not fussing.

‘It is a skill,’ said Magda, ‘learned by observing, listening, trying and discarding. Thou couldst do the same.’ She was relieved to have passed on Alice Tanner’s information. ‘Magda will attend the children.’

Hempe had done his best to leave with his dignity intact, despite the crone’s grinning ear to ear. He wondered at Owen’s willingness to count her as a friend. She behaved as if she held the secret to life and everyone else was welcome to flail about in the darkness.

He took a deep breath and admitted to himself that it was his anger chattering in his head, and that he was aware of all the good she did. Besides, he might now have a description, however incomplete, of Nigel’s murderer.

The shadows of Stonegate reminded him that he’d yet to talk to the goldsmith Edward Munkton about his late apprentice. Recalling that the man had tried to break his contract with Nigel over suspicions of theft, Hempe hoped he would not have any pangs of disloyalty about telling all he knew of the dead man, good or bad, including whether he had a friend who wore showy hats.

In fact, Munkton seemed reticent to speak to Hempe, but he led him through the busy, oven-heated workshop to his screened corner and offered him a cup of watered wine. Though Hempe preferred his undiluted, he accepted with grace, consciously on his best behaviour.

‘Nigel.’ Munkton shook his head. ‘I had such hopes for him. He was a skilled craftsman — a journeyman he was, past apprenticeship. He was clever, a quick learner, but alas, he grew secretive and untrustworthy.’

The crooked jaw that twisted the goldsmith’s face produced a speech so slurred that Hempe’s response was delayed as he reckoned what he’d heard.

‘I’m not gossiping,’ Munkton added, apparently worried about Hempe’s silence.

‘No, you are assisting me,’ said Hempe. ‘Secretive and untrustworthy, you say? I should think such flaws made him ill-suited to be a journeyman in a goldsmith’s shop, working amidst such wealth.’

‘That was my very argument to the guild,’ said Munkton. ‘But they wanted proof, and Nigel had been far too clever to leave any trace of his theft.’

The goldsmith lifted a beringed hand to his mouth, stifling a cough, but he could not mask the rheumy rumble in his chest. Hempe felt a tickle in the back of his own throat, and sensed a fine dust in the air. Something floated delicately atop his watered wine and the lamplight caught sparkling motes on Munkton’s fine clothing. He wondered whether it was gold dust.

‘At least they permitted me to board Nigel elsewhere. I felt better without him biding under my roof,’ Munkton continued. ‘I’d planned to bring another complaint about him at the next guild meeting.’ He tapped his fingers on the table, apparently considering what he’d just said for he added, ‘But I didn’t murder him.’

‘I had not even considered accusing you, Master Edward.’

Munkton bobbed his head in approval. ‘Some might be simple enough to think I’d risk all to commit such a crime.’

‘What was the matter of your latest complaint regarding Nigel?’

Munkton covered another gurgling cough.

‘Unexplained absences,’ he wheezed, then cleared his throat. ‘He was away three full workdays not long ago.’

‘He had no excuse?’

The goldsmith sniffed. ‘Illness. He always claimed illness. But his landlady is no one’s fool and she knew he was away. I confronted him with that and he said he’d gone to a friend’s house but could not on his honour betray her. Honour. Humph. He was just bedding some wife whenever her husband was away, that is what I think, and that is not proper behaviour for a guildsman. He was but nineteen years and already so dissolute.’

‘So young.’ Hempe shook his head, doing his best to gain the goldsmith’s trust. ‘The guild would surely have supported your complaint this time. Do you have any idea who the woman was?’

‘No. Neither did his landlady.’ Munkton coughed again. ‘I pray you, if we are to be a while longer, I would step away for a moment to dispatch a servant to the apothecary. This cough is worsening. I feel a churning in my chest.’ He patted his well-clothed chest with both beringed hands.

‘Of course. I’ll wait quietly.’

When his host was gone, Hempe helped himself to a cup of unwatered wine. It was much more satisfying. The screens that separated Munkton’s little space from the workshop were painted with scenes from the bible, Moses with the tablets of stone floating in the air before him, Christ at the wedding feast changing the water to wine. Law and miracles. It seemed a peculiar pairing. He guessed the screens were cast-offs from the hall above.

‘There. Now what was I about to tell you?’ Munkton settled down once more, taking a sip of his sickly watered wine. ‘Oh yes, the complaints I had from customers and neighbours. He was a surly fellow, and too attentive to the daughters of Stonegate. Robert Dale, whose shop is at the corner, complained that his daughters would not walk out if they saw him in the street, and his wife had called him lewd and dangerous.’

Robert Dale’s wife was one of the most beautiful women in York, and also perhaps the most sumptuously dressed and bejewelled. ‘Perhaps his murder should be no surprise, eh?’ Hempe suggested.

‘I pray he had done no one such harm as to provoke such an attack.’ Munkton looked sincere as he crossed himself.

‘But someone did murder him,’ said Hempe. ‘You have heard of the murder of the pilot Drogo, also fished out of the Ouse?’

Munkton nodded. ‘Do you think their deaths are connected?’

‘That is the question, to be sure. I believe they might have been. Have you ever used Drogo as a pilot?’

‘No, I go through other merchants to ship for me. But I thought he was an abbey bargeman.’

‘That was his official post. Do you use the Abbey Staithe?’

Munkton shook his head. ‘But another of my apprentices saw Nigel with a man in the abbey livery. He wore a green hat as I’ve heard this Drogo wore. It was perhaps a fortnight ago, maybe not so long as that, and shortly afterwards was when Nigel disappeared for several days. Might that be important?’

Why didn’t you come to me with this information earlier, damn you? Hempe silently cursed as he worked to keep his voice and visage calm. ‘Indeed it might be important.’ He sipped his wine. ‘I am grateful for your openness with me.’

‘We will all sleep more soundly when we know the murderer is rendered impotent, Master Bailiff.’

‘Speaking of hats, did you ever see Nigel with a blond man who wore a feathered and furred hat?’

Munkton frowned as he thought. ‘No. But my wife’s sister’s husband wore such a thing. Ugly, it was. And didn’t one of the mayor’s men own such a hat?’ The goldsmith was apparently beginning to enjoy this.

‘I’d hoped it was a more unusual combination.’

‘I wouldn’t call it common, God be thanked.’

‘Have you any notion what Nigel’s business might have been with Drogo?’

‘Perhaps this Drogo was buying the shavings Nigel stole from me,’ Munkton said, then shook his head. ‘Shall I fetch young Rob, whose witness I’m repeating, to talk to you?’

Hempe asked him to do so.

The lad resisted all Hempe’s efforts to put him at ease, and he added little to his master’s report, except that the exchange seemed friendly, and the man in the abbey livery seemed grateful to Nigel.

‘Did you hear anything that they said?’ Hempe prompted.

The lad shook his head.

Hempe left Munkton with a promise to inform him of any significant news, though he had no intention of keeping the promise. He was discouraged. Irritated. He considered the pleasure of having another cup of wine, perhaps at the York Tavern, but he remembered the Riverwoman’s account of Nicholas Ferriby’s behaviour in the apothecary the previous day and decided to continue on into the minster liberty. Then he would be even more deserving of a cup of wine.

Once again Owen and Jasper stayed in a quiet corner of the tavern where they were warming themselves. Rafe and Gilbert were enjoying themselves flirting with both the taverner’s wife and daughter. Owen had asked Jasper to recount to him what he’d heard and observed at both Hubert’s and Sir Baldwin’s houses. He was impressed with the boy’s memory and how much he had observed. In some details they disagreed, but they were for the most part insignificant. The most significant difference was that Jasper had had a strong sense when they were leaving Hubert’s home that morning that the boy regretted having chosen to stay with his mother. Owen had not noticed it, which bothered him if it were so, as much as Aubrey’s disappearance was bothering him. Baldwin had described Aubrey as yearning for Ysenda all the while they’d been gone. He wished he knew what could have happened to make that same man beat the wife he’d so sorely missed, and leave again within such a short time, whether it could have anything to do with Drogo’s taking Hubert’s scrip.

‘Jealousy?’ he wondered aloud. That is what kept coming to mind.

‘Who’s jealous?’ Jasper asked.

‘Aubrey. Perhaps he found evidence that Ysenda had been with another man. She might have thought she was with child, the child of a lover, and that’s why she took the cross. If it was clear that Aubrey could not be the father — but she did not seem pregnant.’

‘So what would he find?’

Owen had forgotten for a moment that he was talking to Jasper, and studied his face to see whether this talk of pregnancy and lovers embarrassed him. It did not seem so. ‘I wish I knew what he found. Tell me what you saw that made you believe Hubert had changed his mind about returning with us.’

‘He’d stopped looking at his mother as if he was ready to protect her. There was something in his eyes when he looked at us too, as if — oh, I don’t know, it’s little things.’ Jasper ducked his head over his tankard, fair hair falling over his face so that it almost touched the rim, then he suddenly lifted his head, raked his hair back and took a drink.

‘How did he look at us, Jasper? I’m trying to understand what you saw, what I missed. I believe you. You have helped me far more than I’d known you could.’

Jasper’s face was again hidden by his hair. He sighed and rocked the tankard on the boards. ‘Do you mind when I call you “Da”?’

‘Mind? God help me, it’s all I can do not to hug you right there. I’m proud of you, son, I am, but, even if I weren’t as proud of you as I am right now, I’d still be proud to have you call me “Da”.’ He shut up, hearing himself going on like a blithering fool.

Jasper nodded and sat rocking the tankard for a good long while, head bowed, face hidden.

Owen glanced over at Gilbert and Rafe and considered telling them that they’d already had enough ale, they had a long ride ahead of them, but he was loath to break into the moment. He sat back and watched the fire.

Finally Jasper straightened and raked the hair from his eyes, which looked red and a little swollen.

‘He looked like he hoped we’d save him,’ said Jasper in a gruff voice. ‘That’s how he looked. Like he wanted us to order him to come with us.’

‘Dear God watch over the lad.’

‘You’re thinking a lot about Hubert’s da as well. I think it’s strange he left, but it sounds as if it’s happened before.’

‘Yes, it’s happened before, but both Sir Baldwin and, subtly, Ysenda behaved as if this time he was gone longer than usual, and not to the usual places — where it’s his custom to drink.’

Jasper suddenly slapped the table. ‘The lover attacked him, and he’s lying injured somewhere!’

‘That would be a nasty welcome home from war, but I was thinking more in terms of why he’s hiding from us.’

Jasper was shaking his head, still building his drama. ‘But Hubert said nothing. A son would always choose his father over another man, wouldn’t he?’

‘Fathers and sons can disagree, and a father can seem cruel — or be cruel,’ said Owen. ‘But enough of your lover story — I just want to talk to the man, get a sense of him. We don’t really know anything at all of him, but others’ opinions — that he loves his wife and is a good fighter, a good drinker, a poor farmer. An honest man. Did he not beat his wife he’d seem an uncommonly good man. But he’s avoiding us. Or is he?’

Owen wondered whether Thoresby would give him leave to send Rafe and Gilbert back to Sir Baldwin to ask for his help in searching for Aubrey de Weston.

A dozen or so boys and girls of varying ages were solemnly listening to Master Nicholas explaining the value of committing passages to memory. The classroom door was open to the alleyway yet those closest to the brazier in the room looked sweaty and sleepy. Hempe hesitated, loath to interrupt a lesson, but neither did he wish to return later, when he might very well find the same situation. He stepped into the doorway.

A young girl gasped to see him and tugged on the sleeve of her neighbour. Soon all were looking his way, which at last drew the grammar master’s attention.

‘Master Bailiff,’ he said with a nod. ‘Are we disturbing the King’s peace with our lesson?’ He smiled and winked at the young scholars, some of whom giggled or chuckled, some of whom were not comforted by his demeanour.

Hempe forced a laugh. ‘Nay, your lesson is blessed noise. I pray you, would you step out with me for a moment. I would talk to you, but I will be brief.’

The grammar master forced his smile to stay and asked his assistant to read a passage from the bible while he stepped out with Hempe.

‘I trust you believe that their lessons are important?’ Nicholas said when they were a house away. ‘I hope that your behaviour in interrupting us does not bespeak your opinion of education.’

‘It is in your power to make this very brief, indeed,’ said Hempe. He sensed that Nicholas’s expression of irritation was an attempt to cover fear. ‘Why did you seek Captain Archer’s counsel yesterday?’

Nicholas squirmed as he glanced up and down the alleyway. But he looked Hempe in the eye at last. ‘I merely wished to know whether Captain Archer felt my name had been cleared, whether he’d heard any more gossip concerning the poor man who bled as I prayed over him.’ He lifted his chin as he completed his little speech.

‘But surely Dame Lucie might have answered that for you. Why did you not ask her whether you had won back your good name?’

‘I did not consider that Dame Lucie would know of all that Captain Archer had heard. Is that all?’

Hempe shook his head. ‘Nay, I doubt that is all. You sought out the captain for more than that. You seemed worried. Perhaps a little frightened.’

‘You were not there. How can you know how I behaved?’

‘I ask questions. I am working with Captain Archer at present, so I can tell you that the journeyman’s death has quieted the rumours about you and Drogo.’

Nicholas crossed himself. ‘I’d heard of another death on the river. But what has that to do with Drogo’s death?’

‘Perhaps people think it unlikely that you would attack two men. But I don’t know that. Where were you that afternoon?’

‘In the schoolroom.’

‘What are you fearfully worried about?’

Nicholas shook his head, but now he did not meet Hempe’s eyes. ‘My good name, that is all. You must understand, as a schoolmaster and a vicar I must be above suspicion, else parents will not trust me with their children, and my flock will not trust me as confessor. Not to mention my trouble with the dean and chancellor of St Peter’s. I’ve no doubt you are well informed about that issue.’ He paused to catch his breath.

He had resumed eye contact, and Hempe did not doubt that all he said was true. It was what he was not saying that Hempe wished to know.

‘I know about that, yes, and I am aware of the import of scandal attached to the name of a priest and grammar master. But I trow you have more to tell.’

‘Is it not enough that my livelihood is threatened?’ Nicholas cried. ‘You say you are aware of the import. You aren’t. You’ve no idea.’

Hempe was glad of the emotion and thought he might push a bit more. ‘You’ve more to tell, Master Nicholas, and I’ll keep asking you until you satisfy me.’

‘You may believe whatever you please, Master Bailiff, but you’ll get no satisfaction from me, for there’s no more to tell. I’ve answered your questions in all honesty and now I must return to my scholars.’

With a huff, the grammar master tugged at his gown to smooth it over his belly and marched back to his classroom. Hempe had no authority to keep him away from his scholars, and he knew to relent before he’d made an enemy. With a sigh, he headed for the nearest tavern outside the minster liberty. It was time for that cup of wine.

Brooding over a claret quite inferior to that which he’d served himself at the goldsmith’s, he eventually let go of his irritation with the grammar master and considered what would be most useful. It was mid-afternoon by now. He was spending far too much time on this. Investigations were not his job, but he could not shake thoughts about it so he’d might as well do something constructive. That the murders were connected he felt in his bones. He had only to find the link, and that might lead him to the murderer. He thought about Drogo and remembered someone searching his house. He’d forgotten to ask Master Edward where Nigel had lodged. The man down the bench, deep into his cups, growled as Hempe rocked the seat in his haste to leave.

The lad who greeted him at Munkton’s was glad to give him the information, and Hempe was off at a trot to Petergate and the house of Dame Lotta, a wealthy widow known for her charitable gifts to the churches of the city. Munkton had certainly settled his journeyman in respectable lodgings. Perhaps the guild had insisted.

An elderly manservant opened the door, ‘Master Bailiff? How did you know my mistress — ?’

‘Did she send for me?’ How strange.

‘Aye. Just now.’

The elderly servant was eased aside by the tiny widow. ‘George Hempe, I think?’ Her dark eyes seemed intense in her exceedingly pale face, and a beautiful contrast to the fair hair braided beneath her veil. Hempe thought her one of the handsomest women of York. ‘Come in, I pray you. I’ve made an unpleasant discovery and need your counsel.’ She led him to a door at the end of the hall farthest from the street.

‘Dame Lotta, I’ve come concerning your lodger, Nigel, the journeyman — ’

‘For Master Edward. Do you mean you know why I sent for you?’

‘You sent for me?’

‘What else would a bailiff of York want with me?’ Her dark eyes watched him with lively curiosity.

‘I wished to ask you about your tenant.’ Hempe wondered how she remained unwed. Might she consider a mere bailiff? He shook his head to rid himself of the thought.

‘You shake your head, Master George?’

‘A crook in my neck, that is all. Pray ignore my twitches. What was your unpleasant discovery?’

Obeying a nod of her head, the manservant slipped past Hempe to the door and swung it wide.

‘Behold my late lodger Nigel’s room, Master George,’ said Dame Lotta with a sweep of her arm.

Bedding twisted and mounded on the floor, a good mattress slit open, feathers everywhere, the contents of a chest spilling out.

‘I assure you, had the young man done such damage, even once, he would have been back at Edward Munkton’s.’

‘When did you find this?’

‘Just a while ago.’ Lotta bowed her head and apologetically said, ‘I did not like to go in last night, not with him just murdered. I feared his spirit might be flitting about in agony, and where would he come but his last home. Nor did I want my servants frightened.’ She peered up at him with the sweetest expression of fear Hempe had ever seen. ‘Perhaps it is unwise to say this of the dead, but he was not a nice man, though tidy and quiet. I’d thought about asking him to leave.’

Hempe asked permission to go into the room and look around, which Lotta readily gave. Clothes, a writing slate, a small book of notes regarding the working of gold which had been his mystery, a pair of worn boots, prayer beads — Hempe found nothing of interest. But of course whoever had searched before him would have removed anything that might point to his murderer, assuming that his murderer was the searcher. He tried the door leading to the side alley and found it locked.

The servant, standing in the doorway to the hall, said, ‘I found it unlocked this morning, sir. Mistress told me to lock it.’

‘Had the lock been damaged? Or the door?’

‘The lock, sir. I had to put another one on it.’

Dame Lotta kept a supply of padlocks, it seemed. Returning to the hall, Hempe asked her what she meant by ‘not nice’.

‘I did not care for the way he looked at me,’ she said. ‘And of late I’d heard another man’s voice a few times. His guests were to come to the street door so that I might know who was in my house.’ She nodded her head as if to emphasise the correctness of the rule. ‘But this one would come by way of the alley door. Nigel also seemed secretive in other ways. Not that I cared to know much of his life, but he’d grown rude in his responses to my questions.’

‘And yet he looked at you with too much interest?’ asked Hempe.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘There was variance in his behaviour. I do not dissemble with you.’

‘I never thought that you did, Dame Lotta. I beg you, forgive me if I have offended you.’

She smiled and gave him a little bow. ‘Of course, Master George.’

‘Did this visitor by any chance wear a fancy hat? Fur and feathers?’

‘As I said, I did not see the visitor.’

‘Ah. Yes, you did say.’ He learned little more, and as he left her home he wondered whether she was truly God’s most adorable creation, or whether he’d had too much wine too early in the day.

Jasper guided his horse close to the captain’s. ‘Da, I just remembered something. Osmund Gamyll was in the city the night of Drogo’s death. It was when he was talking to Master Nicholas that I learned Aubrey and Sir Baldwin were alive and home.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’

The captain grinned and nodded. ‘You are proving to be an excellent spy, my son.’