The Guilt of Innocents

Eight

Brother Michaelo met Owen in the archbishop’s hall. ‘His Grace expected to see you earlier.’ His elegantly sculpted face was set in an expression of mild irritation.

Owen bowed slightly to the archbishop’s secretary. They had known one another a long while, and were friends in their ways, but Michaelo’s loyalty was to the archbishop, not Owen. When Thoresby was irritated with Owen, so was Michaelo. ‘I’ve more to tell His Grace now than I had earlier. I pray he will be glad of that.’

‘Will Emma Ferriby be pleased with your findings?’ Michaelo asked.

‘Is she here?’

‘No. But you know that His Grace wishes above all to lift the pall of suspicion from her brother-in-law, Master Nicholas.’

Owen might have known more had he not followed his conscience to call on His Grace before calling on William and Nicholas. Frustrated and irritated with himself, Owen snapped, ‘I would see His Grace, Michaelo.’ His words echoed in the hall, despite the tapestries and cushions on the elegant seats.

Michaelo smirked as only he could do. Bowing, he said, ‘If you will follow me, I shall announce you.’

Thoresby was pacing in his parlour when Michaelo opened the door. That did not bode well for Owen, but he’d weathered worse. At least his family had nothing to do with the matter at hand, so there was nothing with which Thoresby might threaten him.

‘Your Grace,’ Owen said, bowing.

‘You have kept me waiting half the day, Archer,’ Thoresby said, still prowling about the room arrayed in his archbishop’s robes. Owen wondered what official appearance had required them.

‘I was working for you, Your Grace. I have much to tell you. But if you’ve more important matters to see to, I could return.’

‘Is Nicholas Ferriby innocent?’ Thoresby lifted a document from a shelf and tapped his other hand with it for a few beats, then put it back. The archbishop had a gift for thrusting to the heart of the matter.

‘I cannot say for certain as yet.’ Owen wished he would sit down. This prowling was so uncharacteristic of late that he did not know how to interpret it. It felt like dark, anxious energy.

Thoresby paused with his back to Owen, bowing his head for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, his archbishop’s ring catching the light from the brazier. They were old hands now. The archbishop had aged greatly in the nine years that Owen had known him.

‘Shall we sit, Your Grace?’

‘Emma Ferriby has suffered much of late. You are aware of that, I know, her father’s death, her mother’s feud with the Bishop of Winchester.’

‘That all happened a year ago, Your Grace. Since then life has been calm in her household, and with her mother.’

Thoresby grunted. ‘I met in the chapter house today with the dean and chancellor. They now suggest that the rumours surrounding Master Nicholas are proof that he is unsuited to take charge of young scholars. Canon William was also present.’ Thoresby perched on his chair, hands on knees, and shook his head at the brazier. ‘You would say the same?’

Owen relaxed his self-recrimination about not going to William at once upon learning he’d witnessed the storing of the now-missing scrip, as he’d perhaps been spared having the dean, chancellor and archbishop present when he spoke to him. ‘What had William to say?’

‘He mentioned that a large landholder in Nicholas’s parish had asked him why his brother deemed it necessary to set up his school in the minster liberty. William wondered whether the man was concerned about the character of his parish priest.’

‘What was his opinion about his brother’s motives and his character?’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘He merely reported the visit, no more. He was otherwise present merely as a courtesy, I believe.’

‘Did he name the landholder?’

Thoresby sighed, signalling impatience. ‘No. I told you all he said.’

Owen bit back a frustrated curse. ‘I wish you had asked. I would like to know if it was Sir Baldwin or Osmund Gamyll.’

‘Are you criticising me, Archer? Have a care.’ Thoresby emphasised the warning with a brief pause. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he said, ‘It would be wise to talk to William Ferriby in any case.’

‘I intend to.’ Owen wondered about William’s loyalties. ‘To explain my hesitation about Nicholas Ferriby’s guilt or innocence requires that I tell you all that I have learned, Your Grace.’

‘Then begin, Archer, begin.’

The prospect suddenly seemed exhausting. Owen took the chair opposite the archbishop and forced himself to begin with Hubert and his mother. When he reached Nicholas’s meeting with Robert Dale and his mention of gold cross pendants, Thoresby snorted.

‘This is the evidence that he is a murderer?’

‘Your Grace knows me better than to suggest that,’ Owen said. ‘If I might inquire, Your Grace, would money assist Nicholas in opposing the chancellor’s intention to close his school?’

‘Fetch the wine and cups from the table.’ Thoresby sat back, fussing with the drape of his sleeves. He nodded his thanks to Owen before he took a sip. ‘Ah. Better. I found the minster air filled with stone dust. Difficult on old lungs.’

Owen settled back with his own cup, willing to wait for Thoresby to come round to answering his question. He’d managed to communicate what he’d learned without many interruptions, so he felt he should now be patient.

‘If I were not opposed to excommunicating Nicholas, he would need to raise money to put a petition before the pope,’ said Thoresby. ‘But I am on his side, so there is little chance they will prevail. The school is small, and his own parish church is not particularly well endowed, so he might welcome more money, but so might we all. There is precedent for the chapter’s reaction to a grammar school in the liberty — or at least near it. Years ago the dean and chancellor were incensed by St Leonard’s grammar school. But the school remains. I believe this tempest will pass as well, and Master Nicholas’s school will survive. It is a modest institution, and girls are accepted — certainly nothing St Peter’s will ever consider.’

‘All Nicholas need do is wait?’

‘I believe so. But whether he has the wisdom to do so, I cannot judge.’ Thoresby sipped his wine. ‘What will you do now?’

‘I must see Master Nicholas and his brother. Nicholas came to the shop while I was away but would not talk to Lucie in my stead.’

Thoresby tilted his head as if thinking. ‘Do you expect another murder?’

‘Until I find the murderer that is always the danger, and the motivation for dropping all other responsibilities and searching in every way I can think of.’

‘God go with you, Archer, and with your family. Dame Lucie is well?’

Owen smiled. The archbishop was godfather to both Gwenllian and Hugh, and intended to stand for the child to come. ‘She is as well as a woman might be as she slows and grows anxious for the babe to arrive.’

‘Cherish her, Archer. Do not stint in your attentions to her because of these crimes.’

The comment confused Owen, made him suddenly wonder whether he had neglected her, whether Thoresby had heard she’d complained. But Owen knew that to be unlikely. ‘I do cherish her, Your Grace.’ He resented feeling the need to defend himself. But perhaps he did need to express his affection for her more.

Thoresby rose. ‘I want to hear what Nicholas and William have to say to you.’

Owen had thought that would be the case. He bowed and took his leave. As he departed the hall he wondered why he’d taken Thoresby’s admonition about Lucie to heart, a cleric never wed, though with experience of women, never having lived with one so long as Owen had with Lucie. He thought of how she’d pulled him down onto the bed when he’d returned last night — there was a time when they’d lustily taken every chance to lie together. But that was before the children, and before Lucie’s aunt had moved in. Perhaps since her accident the previous year he’d been reluctant to make love to her too often.

He realised he’d been so distracted he’d missed his turning and had to double back. Enough. He did not need his mind clouded with doubt about his treatment of his beloved wife. As he headed down Vicar Lane towards Master Nicholas’s school he fought a twinge of anger. Thoresby meant well. He was good to Owen’s family, very good.

It was the supper hour for the scholars and Nicholas was able to withdraw into his large chamber with Owen. He did not look well, as round as ever but with a pallor that seemed excessive even for the sunless season.

‘Captain, I am in your debt for coming. I am not one to scare easily, but I’ve — ’ he flung wide his arms, ‘well, since the goldsmith’s journeyman was murdered I’ve not known what to do with myself to stay calm, which of course I must do for my scholars.’ He’d begun to sweat.

‘You knew Nigel, the journeyman?’ Owen asked.

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No, no, I knew him not, but — ’ He took a deep breath and reached beneath his collar, pulling out a gold chain from which hung a delicate gold cross. ‘This is a birthing cross belonging to Sir Baldwin Gamyll. Drogo brought it to me for safekeeping the day before he died.’

‘Holy Mother of God, it’s here.’ Owen caught his breath.

‘Have you been looking for this?’

‘Looking for it? You f — ’ Owen caught himself and dropped the fist he’d raised. ‘This was in the scrip Drogo took from Hubert.’

Nicholas had flinched at the sight of the fist. ‘God help me,’ he murmured.

‘You not only lied to me, but you kept this a secret?’ Owen struggled to keep his voice low. ‘How could you not guess how important this is, eh? By the rood, you had better have a good reason for keeping this from me — and the fact that you knew Drogo.’

Nicholas threw up his hands. ‘Drogo came to me once, a few months past, to inquire about the fees for the school, having heard that I accepted girls as well as boys. He has two daughters. My fees were more than he could afford, but he said his circumstances might improve over the winter and he might see his way to sending one of his daughters. He was courteous and seemed a loving father. So we were not entirely strangers, but that is the extent of it.’

Owen tried to calm himself. He needed answers. He needed to ask and listen. ‘Did he say how it came to be in his possession?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Well, yes, he made up a tale about a buyer trying to trick him. But I knew what it was, having handled it in my parish so often, I know the imperfections, the wear on it — and that it’s been missing for months.’

‘Why did he come to you?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘He would not tell me. I asked, believe me, for it was a great puzzlement to me and he seemed frightened. He said he did not want it found on him. How he knew it belonged in my parish I don’t know, but why else would he entrust it to me?’

‘He did not want it found on him? He said that?’

Nicholas nodded.

‘He said nothing of Hubert’s scrip when he brought the cross to you?’

Nicholas sagged against the wall, his head in his hands for a moment. ‘He did not mention the scrip.’

‘Are you ill, Master Nicholas?’

‘No. Merely — oh, this is why I said nothing to you. After that horrible moment when Drogo began to bleed as he lay before the Virgin I knew I would be suspect if I came forth with this.’ He pulled the chain over his head and held it out to Owen. ‘When he died, and then a goldsmith’s journeyman, I feared I was next, that someone was tracking the cross.’

‘Do you know whether Drogo showed it to Nigel?’

‘No — how could I? But when I heard about the man’s death, the goldsmith’s journeyman, well, I connected the two deaths.’

‘Have you shown it to anyone?’

‘No!’ Nicholas’s colour had returned with a vengeance. ‘Oh, you see, you see, I knew I was cursed by accepting it from Drogo. God’s blood, what am I to do?’

‘I’m sitting down,’ Owen muttered. He tucked the cross into the small pouch he wore on his belt.

Nicholas gestured towards several short benches.

Owen settled on one. ‘Tell me what you know about Hubert de Weston’s family.’

‘What?’ Nicholas blinked at the abrupt change in topic.

‘Sir Baldwin told me that Aubrey de Weston yearned for his wife all the while he was away, but shortly after returning home he’d disappeared, apparently in a temper. Is that surprising?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Ysenda seems to be poison for Aubrey, and he for her. Their fights are legendary in the parish. He is a soldier at heart, a man who is quick to anger, quick to attack. I believe they love each other in their own tortured way, and I think them both good people, though she has little faith, it seems to me. In fact I worried about her that she did not know how to ask for Divine guidance in her grief when I told her that her husband might be dead at La Rochelle. I’d thought of asking Osmund Gamyll to restore her post as housekeeper in his family hall. She’d been sent away when Sir Baldwin remarried, despite his not bringing his young wife to the house until he should return.’

This was a new twist. ‘Ysenda de Weston saw to Sir Baldwin’s home?’ Owen wondered why Baldwin had said nothing about this. Keeping his mistress close at hand?

‘She took care of the house after his first wife died, and before he wed Lady Janet. There was gossip about Ysenda and Sir Baldwin, with Hubert having the Gamyll hair, but he was born before she worked at the house. Gossips are often slack about their facts.’ Nicholas nodded at the sounds growing in the hall beyond the door. ‘The afternoon begins, Captain.’ He rose. ‘I pray I can depend upon you to protect my good name, knowing that I have told you this in confidence.’

Owen rose with a little bow and said, ‘You have been most helpful, Master Nicholas. I am going to set a guard on the school. He’ll be in His Grace’s livery.’

‘To watch me or to protect me?’ Nicholas asked in a testy voice as he saw Owen to the alley door.

‘To protect you, of course,’ said Owen. He made certain the door did not latch tightly, and then headed towards the deanery.

* * *

Chancellor Thomas appeared behind the servant who answered the door. Recognising Owen, the chancellor thanked the servant and sent him away.

‘Why do you wish to speak with Canon William?’ he asked in a wary tone, his eyes searching Owen’s face.

‘I am here on the business of His Grace the Archbishop,’ said Owen.

The chancellor was a distinguished scholar and considered himself a figure of authority, but he was not Owen’s authority. It was moments like this that made his connection with the archbishop worth all the aggravation of the old man’s self-interest. God forgive him but Owen enjoyed discomfiting men like the chancellor who wished to command him but could not.

‘Might I know the nature of the business?’ Thomas predictably asked.

Owen pressed his shoulders up to his ears and rubbed his hands together. ‘I am in danger of freezing on your doorstep.’

‘Of course,’ the chancellor said down his nose and stepped aside to allow Owen into the hall, then snapped at a servant that Canon William might be found in the minster choir and to fetch him here.

Relieved to hear that, Owen said, ‘There is no need for Canon William to come here. I’d as lief attend him in the minster.’ Owen bowed to Farnilaw and thanked him, having remembered that in another circumstance he’d admired the man, and then departed.

The choir was fragrant with beeswax and incense, though only a few candles and lamps were lit at present. Canon William’s sandals whispered on the tiles as he came to greet Owen.

‘How might I be of assistance, Captain Archer?’ he asked with courteous puzzlement. ‘I pray this does not concern my imperilled brother.’

‘I’ve a few questions to ask you, and this might take some time,’ said Owen. ‘Might we sit?’

Gesturing to a gracefully curved bench towards the entrance, William gave a worried shake of his head as he settled down beside Owen. Turning so that he might see Owen’s face he asked, ‘Is this about my brother?’

‘In part. Master John of St Peter’s School told me that you were with him when he put Hubert de Weston’s scrip away in the schoolroom.’

William frowned at the floor for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, I was.’

‘Have you told anyone of seeing the scrip?’

Lifting his eyes to Owen, William frowned, apparently understanding the significance of the question. ‘Let me think, Captain. I’d no idea it would signify.’ He joined his hands as if praying, then lifted them, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. After a few breaths he dropped his hands and nodded. ‘Perhaps I did.’ He grimaced with embarrassment.

Owen tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘Is there anyone in particular you might have mentioned it to?’

‘God help me, but it would have been Dean John and Chancellor Thomas. I had a small group to dinner — it might have been that same day — and they were among my guests.’

‘Do you recall why you spoke of it? Did either of them ask about it?’

William shook his head. ‘No, neither asked about it. I mentioned it because they’d expressed an interest in this tragedy — they are the only ones. The indifference of my fellows has been most disturbing. They were our students who rushed the barges. It is our student who is missing. It goes hand in hand with this ridiculous idea of excommunicating my brother because of where he situated his school. They all think they are superior, more than human.’ By the end of his little speech William was talking loudly, and now he pressed a hand to his mouth and crossed himself with the other.

‘You will be glad to hear that I found the boy Hubert at home in Weston,’ said Owen.

‘Thank the Lord for that.’

‘I’ll return to this matter, but, before I forget, His Grace mentioned that a landholder in your brother’s parish questioned Nicholas’s choice of the minster liberty for his school, but you’d not identified the man.’

William smiled a little, relieved. ‘Pray make my apologies to His Grace for neglecting to name him. It was Osmund Gamyll, at such time when he feared that his father was lost and he was about to take his place as lord of the manor.’

‘How did you come to meet with him?’

‘I was out walking in the city and we met on the street. He seemed vaguely familiar — I was embarrassed to have forgotten his name. He was brief, and attempted to be pleasant, though he was plainly concerned about my brother’s judgement and the state of the parish.’

‘Strange that he should ask you, Nicholas’s brother.’

‘He said he’d heard that I was trying to remain impartial. I assured him that he had no cause for concern, that Nicholas is a worthy priest most devoted to his calling, and that his enthusiasm for educating the children of York was misunderstood by the chancellor.’

‘How did he receive that?’

‘Indifferently. To be frank, Captain, in the end I was not impressed by his demeanour. I felt that once he’d had his say he cared not a whit for what I had to say. He’s a man who should study the sumptuary laws and give some of the wealth he spends on his finery to the Church. That would go a long way towards helping his parish.’ As William spoke he’d straightened and begun tapping one foot in agitation.

But his description of Osmund Gamyll suited many eldest sons eager to take their seats at the high table.

‘Since that meeting have you remembered whether you and Osmund Gamyll had been previously introduced? How he knew you?’

William nodded. ‘It had been at Nicholas’s table — oh — there was another occasion in which the company discussed the sad incident at the barges. Nicholas and I were in his chamber and Osmund Gamyll came to ask whether the lad had been found. Is his interest important, Captain?’

‘It might be. When I was in Weston, I learned that although the scrip was empty when Drogo handed it to Geoffrey that night on the barge, Hubert had kept it close to him because within he had a birthing cross that belonged to the Gamylls.’

William looked startled. ‘Now that is a peculiar connection, isn’t it?’

‘What was Osmund like on this occasion?’

‘Oh, still a peacock of a young squire, but he spoke well, and amused us with tales of the countryside. I quite liked him that time, though it was clear my brother was ill at ease.’ William sighed. ‘But to the point, I fear I might have mentioned the scrip’s being safely tucked away for the lad in the schoolroom at St Peter’s. Why?’

He’d been so specific. Owen almost groaned with frustration. ‘It is no longer where Master John hid it.’

William blushed. ‘Dear God, I’ve done Nicholas no good, have I? My poor brother. But I tell you I cannot believe he would take it.’

‘I did not say he did. Apparently the dean, the chancellor, and Osmund Gamyll also knew where the scrip was,’ said Owen, ‘as well as yourself.’

William moved his mouth as if trying to speak, but nothing came out. His face flowed in and out of emotions as if he could not settle on one.

Owen rose. ‘You have been most helpful. I pray you, keep this conversation between us.’

Finally catching his voice, William agreed. ‘But I must ask, what did the boy want with a birthing cross?’

Owen explained Hubert’s unhappiness about leaving his mother alone.

William looked sympathetic. ‘They feel so much at that age.’ He was beginning to move away when he turned suddenly, ‘A gold cross, Captain? Might that then be connected with the death of the goldsmith’s journeyman?’

Owen put a finger to his lips. ‘That is what I mean to discover.’ He thanked William, and then, before moving on, knelt in the choir for a moment to pray for Lucie and the child in her womb.

Hubert’s hood would not stay up and he did not care. He let the wind rip through his hair as he screamed out his anger and hurt up on a hill near his home. Birds startled from the underbrush. A man stopped his cart to stare up at him for a while, eventually moving on with a shake of his head.

‘I hate her,’ Hubert shouted. ‘I hate both of them. I hate all three of them. Damn them. Damn her. I hate her. I hate me.’ The litany expanded, contracted, curved back on itself, but the emotion remained steady — Hubert hated himself, his parents and Osmund Gamyll with all his heart.

After his mother had nearly burned down the house the previous night she’d slept until late this morning, almost midday. When she woke, she asked Hubert why he was so quiet. In her eyes there was a touch of fear — or perhaps it was doubt.

‘How can you ask me that after last night?’ he’d asked, irritated that she could be so changeable. ‘You don’t love me.’

‘What are you talking about, Hubert?’ He could see her fear deepen.

As did his. Could she not remember? Was she possessed?

She tried to smile prettily but her face was swollen, her hair uncombed and she smelled rank with sweat. ‘Be a good lad and fetch me water, then stoke the fire. I’m not well today. How silly to think I don’t love you. Now smile for your mother, won’t you?’

Always before he’d come around, forgiving all, certain that he could prevent future outbreaks, that with his love he could keep her from drinking. But this morning he could not smile for her. Nor could he bear her presence. Pretending he’d gone to do her bidding he’d climbed the hill, trying to flee his feelings, but of course he could not outrun them.

‘Hubert!’

He had not heard Aubrey’s approach.

‘Where have you been?’ Hubert shouted. ‘Sir Baldwin’s servants have searched everywhere for you.’

‘You’ll sicken up here in the wind and cold,’ Aubrey said. He wore a close-fitting hat and a heavy cloak, and even so his face was ruddy with cold. Hubert realised that he was cold. Aubrey firmly grasped his hand and despite his protests — Hubert could not imagine what he wanted — led him down the other side of the hill, across a frozen stream, through a wood and into an outbuilding they’d used for livestock when they had enough to require grazing in the far fields. A fire circle brought welcome warmth. Hubert approached it with his hands out.

‘Sir Baldwin’s servants didn’t find me because they never search on our land,’ said Aubrey, sounding weary. ‘Now what was all that about, son?’

Hubert shrugged. ‘So you come here a lot?’

‘Yes. I know I need not go far, neither of you will come searching for me.’

‘She never told me to.’

‘You might have come on your own, son.’

‘Don’t call me that. You know it’s not true.’ Hubert flung himself down on a pallet near the fire. Everything stank of damp and animals long gone. ‘It’s all lies.’

Aubrey squatted down beside him. ‘God’s blood. She told you that? Is that why you’re angry?’

Hubert said nothing, uncertain how much he wished to say.

Aubrey squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re disappointed that you’re not of my flesh. But you are my son. I like to think that I’ve made that plain.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Where’s the lie in that, I ask you?’ Hubert felt him settle down beside him.

‘All your foul moods, like coming out here, leaving us, they’re all because Rob and Bess died and I didn’t. The only one not yours lived.’

‘She told you that?’

Hubert nodded.

‘Satan’s daughter she is, I swear I don’t know what I did that God cursed me with loving her.’

‘I hate her.’ It came out half sob, half growl. Hubert buried his face in the hay, not wanting Aubrey to see his tears.

Aubrey gently rubbed his back. ‘I thought she was good to you, wanted you innocent of her evil so you would adore her. Something must be wrong for her to turn on you like that. She liked it that you thought I was the cause of all the suffering in the house. She even told you once that I’d brought back the pestilence from the market in York. That it was my fault your brother and sister died.’

Hubert had forgotten that. He struggled to sit up on the lumpy pallet. Aubrey sat with his knees up, arms propped on them, staring at the fire. He looked worn, like he had not been sleeping or eating.

‘How did you find out I wasn’t yours?’ Hubert asked. ‘Were you angry?’

Aubrey shook his head. ‘I knew from the first, I knew she was with child. Sir Baldwin had a wife, so he told me her condition, knowing how I cared for her. I was only too happy to take the chance.’

‘Sir Baldwin?’ Hubert touched his hair — red, like his lord’s. He’d thought maybe Osmund, but not Sir Baldwin. He felt a little better — at least he wasn’t Osmund’s son. ‘I’m Sir Baldwin’s son?’

‘Aye. Even if he’d not been wed he’d never have taken Ysenda to wife, a bastard herself, child of the former vicar. My parents advised me to look elsewhere, to find a woman of honest birth with a good family, a bit of land for a dowry. But her beauty blinded me. I pray you are never so foolish, so stubborn, my son.’

Hubert was only half-listening, absorbing his new identity. ‘I’m Osmund Gamyll’s half-brother?’ He spit into the fire.

‘Your father is an honourable man, Hubert. He’s been good to me.’ Aubrey patted Hubert’s leg. ‘Your half-brother will change when he is lord. They all do.’

Hubert was digesting the fact that his mother had slept with Sir Baldwin and now was bedding his son.

‘I hate her,’ he hissed. ‘How can you love her?’

‘You know how — you’ve loved her all your young life. My guess is that she drank too much last night and turned on you. Am I right?’

Hubert nodded.

‘I pray she’s in no danger,’ Aubrey said, shifting a little on the pallet to look at Hubert. ‘Poor lad. How often did that happen while I was away with Sir Baldwin?’

‘She’s never been as bad with me.’

‘That worries me.’

‘Most of the time when she drank she complained about you.’

‘God be thanked for that. I worried about you, and her. I wish I knew what to do to make her happy.’

‘Can she really not remember what she said, what she did the night before?’

Aubrey closed his eyes and dropped his head, as if ashamed. ‘I can tell you from experience — yes.’

Hubert found that a little reassuring.

‘Did she weep when she thought I was dead?’ Aubrey asked.

‘Yes, oh, yes.’

‘Who brought the news?’

‘Father Nicholas.’

Aubrey nodded. ‘He’s a good man.’ He stretched his legs and resettled. ‘Enough of that. Something has been troubling me, son — how did you travel from York home?’

Hubert was glad to be asked even though he was reluctant to talk about the experience. ‘I walked.’

Aubrey grunted. ‘Well I know that, lad, but how did you find your way? I had to be shown the way a few times before I could ride it myself, and even then I was worried I’d stray. Tell me — did you have a guide?’

Hubert shook his head. ‘I asked here and there.’ He turned away from Aubrey’s searching eyes.

‘God in heaven, Hubert. You trusted strangers to tell you which way to go? You might have been killed or — did anyone harm you?’

‘I didn’t let them. I ran.’

Hubert’s stomach felt funny now that he was allowing himself to look back at the journey. He did not like remembering how frightened he’d been, how he’d lay awake at night even though he was so tired and, when he accidentally fell asleep, the terror he’d feel when he woke and remembered that he shouldn’t sleep. He burst into tears.

Aubrey drew him close and held him.

When he was calm again, Hubert sat up by himself and wiped his eyes.

‘Never again, son. You must promise me you’ll never make a journey like that alone again, not until you’re able to defend yourself against the worst of them.’ Aubrey’s pale eyes held Hubert’s gaze.

‘I promise.’

‘I’ve neglected your training in arms and hand-to-hand combat. But when you’re home from school again we’ll begin.’

Hubert was more than a little surprised — his father had never offered to teach him to fight. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ Aubrey said, laughing. He patted Hubert’s shoulder. ‘You seem calmer now. Are you ready to go home?’

The thought made Hubert want to retch. ‘I don’t want to ever go back.’

‘It’s your home, son. She’s your ma. She’ll want to see you before you return to school, which is where I’m thinking you should be.’

‘She says I won’t be going back.’

‘Not going back? Why not?’

‘I ran out when Osmund Gamyll was talking to me.’

‘Why does that warrant?’

‘It’s Osmund who sponsored me at St Peter’s.’

Aubrey sighed. ‘For his father. Sir Baldwin has sponsored you from the first. He felt it his duty as your father. Damn her. She just wanted to hurt you. She’s cruel and dishonest when she drinks.’

Yesterday Hubert would have hated Aubrey for saying that, but he didn’t today. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’ Hubert wanted to wake up and be back at school, before he’d lost the scrip. Please, God, let me out of this bad dream.

‘Do you think she’s afraid of Osmund?’ Aubrey asked.

Hubert nodded. ‘I think she may be.’

‘God help her,’ Aubrey murmured. ‘Hubert, believe that I’ve always thought of you as my son, and that I’m proud of your learning, and of how you’ve always helped where you could and looked after your mother.’

Hubert wondered why Aubrey was being so nice to him. ‘I’m not worthy of your kindness.’

‘Not worthy? Oh, Hubert. I was there when you were born and from that moment I’ve loved you.’ Aubrey put his arm around Hubert’s shoulders and smiled at him. ‘What a voice you had from the start!’ He laughed.

Hubert had never thought about being born. ‘I’m sorry I listened to her about you. I thought it was all you, all the fighting.’

Aubrey’s smile was sad. ‘She knows what to say to anger me, that’s a fact. I’ve prayed for patience, I’ve tried to harden myself against her words, but I’m no saint, that is for certain. Sir Baldwin knows of what I speak. And now you. I am sorry she turned on you. Tell me — does she argue with Osmund?’

Hubert nodded.

Aubrey rose to place another thick branch on the fire, poking the coals so that it would catch, then settled back on the pallet beside Hubert, who was content to listen to the crackling and popping for a while. How strange it was to feel so comfortable with Aubrey, to know him as a person, how he felt, why he’d wed. He hoped Aubrey did not regret it later. It would be nice to have a father like him.

‘What did Osmund Gamyll want with you?’ Aubrey asked. ‘What did he come to talk about?’

Hubert had dreaded the question. He did not want to betray his mother, despite hating her. But Aubrey had not asked what Osmund wanted with his wife.

‘He’s been in York and heard all about — ’ Hubert stumbled, not knowing how to begin. ‘I lost something of Ma’s that turned out to be Sir Baldwin’s.’

‘Is that it? Did Osmund accuse her — ’ Aubrey shook his head. ‘Go on, son.’

‘I didn’t really lose it, it was stolen by a bargeman. With Ma’s scrip — I’d put it in there. And he returned the scrip, I guess, but not the cross. And a man died. The man who stole it.’

He wasn’t surprised that Aubrey looked confused.

‘Why did you have something of your mother’s in one of her scrips?’

‘I was stupid and thought she loved me and I wanted something of hers to keep close to me.’ Hubert began to cry again. He pressed his fists into his eyes to stop the embarrassing tears.

Aubrey had risen. ‘Here, have a little.’

It was a jug of cider. Hubert shook his head, thinking of his mother.

‘Go ahead. When you calm a little more you can explain the rest. I won’t let you have so much you cannot walk and talk, I promise.’

Hubert took the jug and drank, then handed it to Aubrey.

‘When you are ready, you can tell me more.’ Aubrey put the jug into a sagging trunk and left the hut.

Hubert lay back on the pallet, praying for help to stop thinking for a while or to at least slow down his thoughts. He felt as if he had bees in his head, buzzing so loudly that he could not hear his own breath.

Owen and Hempe slipped through the alley door into Nicholas Ferriby’s room to search it. Such a tidy room should not take long, they had reasoned, and they would be away before the school day ended. Hempe took a large semi-circular vestment press that looked full of clothing, Owen searched the shelves. Nicholas had a simple but still costly book of hours, some letters from parents and guardians, several hats. He took the hats down one at a time and at the bottom made a discovery. Tucked within one was the scrip he’d seen that night at the Clee.

‘Hubert’s scrip,’ he said softly.

Hempe stole across to him. ‘The cross, the scrip, what more do we need?’

Remembering his idea that there might be more to the scrip, Owen carefully felt every inch of it. He noticed a slight bulge beneath the clasp and slipped his fingers beneath it. He found a tiny pocket, and within — he drew out a gold ring set with a single ruby. ‘Now this is a beautiful thing. I wonder to whom this belongs?’

‘We’ll ask him,’ Hempe said.

‘Not yet.’ He tucked the ring back in the little pocket.

‘I wonder how he’ll explain this?’

Owen shook his head. Scrip in hand, he stepped out into the alley, and Hempe followed close behind him. The wind kept them silent for a moment.

Turning his back to it, Hempe asked, ‘Now what?’

‘We confront him after the scholars depart for the day.’

Hempe leaned close to be heard. ‘Do you suppose the owner of the ring was another victim? One we have yet to discover?’

‘I intend to find out.’ Even with this evidence in hand, Owen did not feel satisfied. ‘Can you imagine Nicholas Ferriby purchasing poison for a knife? And what of the well-dressed man who argued with Nigel on the riverbank? I found no furred and feathered cap.’

‘He is not what he seems,’ said Hempe. ‘And we do not know that Alice Tanner saw Nigel and his murderer. She might have seen two men unrelated to Nigel’s death.’

Of course that was possible. But Master John had remarked how difficult it would be for anyone to be sure they would not be caught breaking into St Peter’s School — for Master John’s rival to take that risk seemed so foolhardy as to suggest madness, and Nicholas did not strike Owen as a madman. It also seemed madness to murder two men for a simple gold cross. The ring was almost certainly of greater value.

And Owen very much doubted that it had been in the scrip when Drogo handed it to Geoffrey on the night of his death.