The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Eleven

Alisoun and her Aunt Colet circled round each other warily. Neither felt comfortable turning her back on the other.

‘How did you come to be spared?’ Colet asked the child as soon as she stepped from the cart.

Alisoun turned back to her uncle. ‘I told you I should stay at the farm. She does not want me here.’

‘Do not turn from me when I am speaking to you!’ Colet said in an imperious voice.

Lame John pushed Alisoun forward. ‘Pay your respects to your aunt, child.’

She turned to face Colet. Fair and fat she was, with eyebrows and lashes so blonde they were transparent and made her face look naked. She had large, prominent teeth and a sneer that lingered even on the rare occasions when she smiled. Alisoun thought her disgusting. It was at that moment that she took a vow to remain silent so long as she stayed in her aunt’s house.

Three days of her silence drove Colet mad. ‘I cannot have this impertinence in my house!’

‘What is your complaint, wife? She has obeyed you in everything.’

‘Except to speak. I cannot know her mind if she will not speak.’

‘You did not much like her mind.’

‘’Tis the Devil’s work. No natural child could keep still so long. And what of that longbow? Who taught her to use it?’

‘My brother Duncan. A foolish idea, I admit.’

‘You must take it from her.’

‘If she aims it at one of us, I will do so, wife. But not before.’

‘You are not only lame, but weak, husband.’

‘And a fool for wedding such an ill-natured woman.’

Alisoun listened to the argument as she sat just outside the doorway, keeping an eye on her two young cousins while she stirred a sickening mixture of honey, oats and milk for her aunt’s complexion. Aunt Colet had sneered at what she called Alisoun’s mother’s airs, but what farmer’s wife pampered herself so with plasters to whiten and soften the skin? Did she ready herself for court? And while she lay napping in the late afternoon with the concoction on her face, Alisoun must sit and fan away the flies that fancied the honey.

Her little cousins began to shriek as they pulled each other’s hair. Alisoun put the bowl aside and yanked the two apart. A shooting pain travelled up her right arm. Her hand was sore from stirring the thickening mixture. And who could blame the children for fighting? They were sweaty and irritable from playing in the sun. Even Alisoun, sitting in the shade of a spindly tree, felt light-headed from the heat. And queasy from the sweet scent of her aunt’s concoction. She drew the two girls over by the house and allowed them each to dip one fingertip into the mixture. That would quiet them for a while.

Alisoun settled back on the bench, shaded her eyes, stared off into the distance. But no clouds of dust heralded her cousin’s approach. Three days she had been here, and there had been no sign of her cousin. That morning Lame John had read the anxiety in her furtive glances out of the door and had assured her that Rich would be back from market this day: he had been delayed, but surely by mid-morning he would appear, and he would fetch her horse as soon as he returned. It was now past midday and still there was no sign of him. Alisoun did not think it at all likely that he would agree to turn round on arrival and go to her farm for the horse.

So she planned to leave as soon as the sun set. It would be easy then. Her bed was in an outlying shed. No one would miss her till morning.

On the road to Bishopthorpe, Alfred, one of the archbishop’s retainers, compensated for his sullen captain’s silence by babbling statistics about the dead and dying in York. Owen did not listen long enough to be bothered by it. He knew that Alfred was nervous about a rash under his arm that he was certain foretold pestilence, despite Lucie’s assurances that it was a heat rash. Alfred had seen a star falling from the sky the night before the rash had appeared, and that was enough to convince him that he was doomed. In the circumstances, Owen thought it best to let Alfred chatter and jaw if it eased his mind, though he could not imagine how talk of the plague comforted him.

As they rode through the gates of Bishopthorpe, Alfred pointed towards a figure standing by the door to the hall.

Owen was amazed. ‘Brother Michaelo. Out in the yard, sitting in the sunlight? How unlike him.’ The archbishop’s secretary was not fond of fresh air.

As grooms helped Owen and Alfred from their horses, Brother Michaelo rose and approached them slowly, his usually inexpressive face a mask of grief.

‘Benedicte, Brother Michaelo,’ Owen said. ‘I pray all are well in the house?’

‘Benedicte, Captain Archer, Alfred.’ Michaelo bowed his head towards each in turn. ‘I am sad to say Death has visited the household. Maeve, the cook, has this morning lost her youngest daughter to the pestilence.’

Alfred crossed himself and coughed nervously.

‘May God grant her eternal rest,’ Owen murmured. ‘I hope that everyone else in the household is well?’ He was not in the mood to linger on the death of a child. Their maid, Kate, had that morning learned of the death of her youngest brother, another victim of the pestilence. Her grief was hard to bear. Kate’s sister, Tildy, at Freythorpe Hadden with Gwenllian and Hugh, had yet to hear the sad news.

‘So far God has taken no others,’ Michaelo said, ‘but two of the gardener’s children are ailing.’ He crossed himself. ‘His Grace hopes you can concoct something from our stores to calm Maeve. She will let no one comfort her.’

‘A few cups of His Grace’s brandywine should suffice. A scattering of balm leaves in the cup will lighten her heart. And if you have any valerian root, a pinch would hasten drowsiness. Sleep is the best remedy for grief.’

Michaelo glanced at the pouch Alfred held to his nose. ‘I see that you carry the scented bags. We have been using balls of ambergris. Which do you recommend, Captain?’

Even in his grief, Michaelo’s obsession with his own well-being remained strong. For once Owen found it refreshing. ‘I cannot in all honesty swear to any of the remedies or preventatives, Michaelo. We worry about being in crowds. But what crowd would Maeve’s child have been in out here?’

‘She took the child into York to collect some items from the archbishop’s palace,’ Michaelo said darkly. ‘And took the child to Mass in the minster.’

Alfred pressed one hand over the rash under his arm. As one of the archbishop’s retainers, he lived in the barracks near the palace.

Owen cursed himself for getting caught in this pointless conversation. ‘You have been a long time from York, Brother Michaelo. There are no crowds round the palace or the minster. Folk keep to themselves. Would you inform His Grace that I am here?’

Michaelo studied Owen for a moment. ‘You are looking well enough.’ He glanced at Alfred. ‘But you have discomfort. You do not bring plague to Bishopthorpe?’

Alfred paled.

‘For pity’s sake, the pestilence is already here,’ Owen grumbled. ‘Alfred has but a rash from the heat if you are so fascinated with the health of others. Mistress Wilton has given him a lotion to soothe it.’

Michaelo’s eyes said he did not believe Owen’s explanation. Neither did Alfred, of course. But the archbishop’s secretary merely sniffed and led them into the house.

Thoresby received Owen in his parlour, usually a cool room in summer, with the windows opening on to the garden and beyond it the river. But today the room was stuffy, with the shutters latched and a brazier aglow with rosemary wood. Ambergris, rosemary wood — Thoresby was not counting on prayers to protect him from the pestilence. The archbishop bent over some work. His hair had grown dusty with age in the past year. When he glanced up to nod to Owen, his eyes seemed even more deeply sunken than usual, his lips pinched.

‘Benedicte, Archer.’ His eyes returned to the documents on the table before him.

Owen was accustomed to the archbishop. ‘Benedicte, Your Grace. I hope you find all to your liking at Bishopthorpe.’

‘As ever.’

Thoresby did not make it easy to be pleasant. ‘How fares Queen Phillippa, Your Grace?’

‘Not well. The end is near.’

‘May God bless her and keep her,’ Owen said, crossing himself.

Thoresby sighed, waved Owen to a chair on the other side of the small table at which he sat. ‘You have seen to Maeve?’

Owen settled in the chair, crossed his arms, nodded. ‘I have given Michaelo instructions, Your Grace.’ He glanced at the documents. They appeared to be petitions, letters.

‘Maeve is a good Christian woman,’ Thoresby said. He clapped for a servant, who silently emerged from the shadowy corner. ‘Move these to my work table.’ While the young man scooped up the parchments and carried them across the room, the archbishop said, ‘I pray God the rest of her children do not succumb.’ He motioned to the servant to pour wine, then settled back in his thronelike chair, resting his hands on the rounded armrests. ‘And your family, Archer? Are they well?’

‘Aye, thanks be to God. We have been spared so far.’ Owen noted that the servant’s hands shook as he poured the wine. It was no surprise. Pestilence had come to the manor. All would be wondering who would be the next to fall ill. ‘We have sent the children to Lucie’s father in the country.’

Thoresby picked up his cup, gazed into its depths. ‘A laudable move, though the country has not saved the folk at this manor. Simon, the gardener, has two children ill. Who knows whether they would have been safer in York? But I seldom use the palace in the city. It made sense for Simon to be here. And with all those children …’

Owen glanced out the window at the garden. ‘It matters not how many one has, each child is precious.’

‘Simon bears it well.’

‘So quickly the deaths follow, one on the other.’

‘Is it not the way?’ Thoresby examined his cup in the light. ‘As Master Apothecary, Lucie must be busy.’

‘Aye, that she is. With each visitation of the pestilence folk have become more inventive with their precautions. A wealthy merchant asked yesterday for enough crushed diamonds to strew round his bed and cut Death’s feet to shreds.’

‘Odd. I have ever thought of Death booted.’

‘And I in sandals.’

Thoresby drank deeply.

Owen found the archbishop’s idle babble disturbing. It was unlike him and it delayed the inevitable bad news or tirade. But he might be wise to play along with it. ‘I trust Your Grace is well?’

‘Well enough, Archer.’

Owen thought not. The archbishop’s eyes had none of their customary fire. ‘I have come to the manor as often as I could manage,’ Owen said. In addition to being captain of the archbishop’s retainers in York and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, Owen was responsible for the smooth running of Bishopthorpe in Thoresby’s absence. Perhaps he might ease the conversation towards the business of the day.

‘You have done well, Archer. You have proved yourself worthy of the trust I place in you.’ Thoresby at last met Owen’s gaze. He smiled.

Owen was not fond of Thoresby’s smile. It often meant trouble. ‘You did not summon me to Bishopthorpe to praise my work.’

‘No. I have more work for you. I must take you away with me for a short time.’

Owen clenched his jaw.

‘You will accompany me to my manor of Sherburne.’ The manor was south of Leeds, a good day’s journey from York.

‘What is at Sherburne?’

‘The stones to complete the minster’s Lady Chapel. The quarry has been depleted.’

‘So I have heard. But I thought Michaelo and the master mason were inspecting alternative quarries.’

‘None was of sufficient quality.’

‘There is a quarry on the land at Sherburne?’

Thoresby’s eyes narrowed, as if he thought Owen was being obstinate in not understanding. ‘No. I intend to dismantle the house itself. The stones are well cut, of excellent quality.’

Owen stared at Thoresby, wondering how one responded to an archbishop who had lost his mind.

Thoresby chuckled, though he did not smile. ‘You find the scheme impractical.’

Mad was more like it. ‘That is a beginning, Your Grace.’

‘A beginning?’

Enough of this courtesy. ‘I think it folly to pursue such a scheme, Your Grace. I cannot but wonder at your motivation. Do you tire of the house? It is no longer to your liking? What of the next Archbishop of York? He might take exception to your wanton destruction.’ As Owen spoke he watched Thoresby’s cheeks puff out and redden.

‘Wanton destruction?’

‘Such a house took many men and much labour to create. And you would tear it down because you prefer using the stones for your tomb, when you assuredly have alternatives that would not entail such destruction.’ Owen surprised himself with his vehemence.

‘Had I an alternative I would pursue it, Archer. But the quarries near at hand do not offer such quality, and those far away will take too long and cost too much, and workers are difficult to recruit in the midst of pestilence. I would complete the Lady Chapel this year, before Martinmas.’

Owen closed his eye, considered. Even using Sherburne’s stone, the archbishop could not expect the masons to meet that goal. Little more than three months. And whence came that goal? Did Thoresby think his death so close at hand? ‘Why this year?’

‘I have vowed to complete Our Lady’s chapel in return for her intercession on behalf of the people of York. I have prayed to her to spare them from the pestilence.’

Owen looked Thoresby squarely in the eye. ‘Then you are too late, Your Grace. We have buried more than one hundred in the city these past two months.’

Thoresby’s face was pinched, his eyes sad. ‘I did not know it was so many,’ he said, his regret clear in his tone. ‘Still. I may save far more than that.’

Mayhap. But Owen would not leave Lucie at so perilous a time on such a fool’s errand. ‘Forgive me, but I am needed at home, Your Grace. And you need me to protect your interests in the city. The fear makes the crowds unpredictable. Think of the Lammas Fair.’

‘You know full well there will be no Lammas Fair this year. Which is yet another reason to use the stones I already own. I shall have no revenues to spare. You will go with me to Sherburne.’

‘Why? Of what use will I be to you there?’

‘You question my orders?’

‘This is a fool’s errand, Your Grace. And hardly the work of either your captain or your steward.’

Thoresby slammed his palms on the table, and rose, leaning across, his face close to Owen’s. He reeked of ambergris, rosemary, wine, and sweat: unusual for the archbishop, who had a peculiar fondness for bathing. ‘You shall obey me!’

Thunder did not intimidate Owen. ‘I cannot leave my wife and the shop for so long, Your Grace,’ he said quietly. ‘Not in a time of pestilence. Each day the apothecary is filled with customers. I must help Lucie as much as I can.’

‘What of her apprentice?’

‘He works hard, Your Grace. But there is much to do.’

‘You have managed well enough coming here.’

‘That is not the same as being away for a long while, Your Grace, with no opportunity to return and see how they fare.’

‘You are my man,’ Thoresby stated, knowing full well how Owen hated such a claim.

‘That can change, Your Grace.’

They glared at one another. The silence lengthened. Suddenly Thoresby rose, walked to the window, asked without turning to face Owen, ‘What do you know of the troubles at St Leonard’s?’

Who had won? Owen doubted he was the victor. But he meant to stand his ground on Sherburne, so how could he be the loser? ‘Walter de Hotter stabbed and strangled in his house, odd wounds on two victims of a fire, one of them dead. A golden chalice missing, a valuable missal cover, some goblets. I know only what all in York know.’

‘More thefts than that. Considerably more.’ A moment of silence. ‘My nephew will be called south as soon as the deaths from pestilence cease.’

Owen felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. This did not bode well. ‘Aye, he is an important man in chancery and the Queen’s household. I should think he would have little time to devote to the hospital.’

‘But he will not wish to leave until harmony is restored at St Leonard’s.’

‘They say he has an eager investigator in his cellarer.’

Thoresby turned round, smirking. ‘Don Cuthbert? The man offends all to whom he speaks. He is not the man for the task.’

‘Don Erkenwald is more suitable, and he has been uneasy about Hotter’s death from the beginning.’

‘I prefer that my own man see to it.’ Thoresby held Owen’s gaze as he emphasised ‘my own man’.

‘It has naught to do with me.’

‘You wished to remain in York. I shall grant your request. On the condition that you assist my nephew in seeing harmony restored to St Leonard’s.’

‘It is not your right to arrange for my hire as a spy.’

‘No? Mistress Wilton might feel otherwise.’

Owen paused. Had Lucie spoken to him in private? Recently? ‘What do you mean?’

Thoresby resumed his seat, steepled his hands. The smirk still taunted Owen. ‘As I recall, Mistress Wilton hindered our efforts to discover the truth about my ward’s poisoning. How long ago that seems. And yet, even so, I intervened with the guild so that she might marry you and retain her standing as Nicholas Wilton’s widow.’

Relieved to hear that Lucie had not betrayed him, Owen was yet disturbed. ‘Surely my work the past six years has repaid you tenfold.’

Thoresby chuckled. ‘It is you who has been well paid, Archer.’ He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead on his steepled fingers. ‘Why do you not wish to assist my nephew?’

‘You know that is not the point, Your Grace.’

The head lifted. ‘No?’

False surprise. It was these moments that kept Owen from liking the archbishop. And yet Thoresby was godfather to both his children. ‘Sir Richard was a generous host when I was in Beverley. I have no quarrel with him.’

‘Good. He learned to trust you.’

Perhaps this was not a matter of Thoresby’s volunteering Owen, but of his communicating a request from another. ‘Sir Richard asked for me?’

‘He did.’

Damn the man. ‘I do not know how much time I might devote to such a task. With so many coming to the shop, there is little time during the day to prepare the physicks; we work in the evening and early morning. And there is the garden, and my responsibilities as your steward here. Besides all that, there is another matter on my conscience.’

‘Ah? And what is that?’

He told Thoresby about Tildy and Kate’s loss. ‘We promised we would send word to Tildy at Freythorpe if the sickness touched her family.’

Thoresby poured himself more wine. ‘Freythorpe is on my way to Sherburne. I shall call there, deliver the news, see my godchildren.’

Owen did not know whether to be grateful for Thoresby’s generosity or worried about the archbishop’s motivation. ‘Your Grace. It is a kind gesture. There are few willing to go abroad with such messages.’

Thoresby smiled. ‘You see? There is nothing to keep you from the hospital.’

Owen tasted bile. ‘Do you enjoy moving us all round like pawns?’

‘I confess it is one of the pleasures of age. There are far too few, Archer. You would not know that, but someday …’

‘You never meant to take me to Sherburne.’

Thoresby raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Later, after they had shared a meal, Thoresby mentioned Honoria de Staines. ‘I warned Richard that St Leonard’s was not the place for such a woman.’

‘Why do you speak of her?’

‘Two of the missing goblets were hidden in her bedchamber. She claims they were gifts but will say no more. See what you might glean from her.’

‘Considering her reputation, the goblets were likely gifts from a lover.’

‘Then why does she not name him?’

Owen wondered the same thing. But he was not in a mood to agree with Thoresby. ‘Is it so difficult to imagine such a woman being loyal?’

Thoresby dismissed Owen’s suggestion with a sniff. ‘And while you are asking questions, find out why Don Cuthbert is her champion.’

Owen drained his cup. ‘A fool’s errand.’

‘Sherburne or St Leonard’s. Your choice, Archer.’

‘I shall surely deserve Heaven when my time comes.’ Owen pushed himself away from the table, rose.

‘Let us pray that your time is not so near you have no more opportunity for sin.’

Owen crossed himself. ‘Honoria de Staines is not the only subject of rumour. What of Sir Richard? Is he beyond suspicion?’

Thoresby suddenly took an interest in the bowl of fruit before him, spent a moment choosing a peach, sniffing it. ‘No one is beyond suspicion, Archer. But his asking for you is the action of a fool if he has aught to hide.’

Was that meant as praise? Owen studied the archbishop, bending to the task of quartering the peach with his dagger.

‘Is your nephew likely to play the fool?’

‘From time to time.’ Thoresby raised his eyes to Owen. ‘See you watch your back. I would not lose you on a fool’s errand.’ He smiled.

At table, Lucie silently stared down at her food as Owen recounted his interview with the archbishop. Thoresby was right, she was far more fearful of insulting him than Owen was. He was a powerful man, and though an archbishop, he was human enough to have a temper that he did not always bother to check. What might he do to them? And yet he could be so kind. But best of all was the love Owen had expressed through this refusal.

‘You do not look at me. You are angry?’

Lucie glanced up, surprised by the question. Jasper also watched her, though less obviously than Owen whose hawk-eye was fixed on her. ‘Sweet Jesu, how could you think me angry, my love?’ She rose, held out her hand to him. ‘Come. Let us walk in the garden.’

The shrubs and trees rustled softly in the evening breeze. As they strolled past the rosemary hedge, Owen said, ‘The archbishop had a fire of rosemary wood in his parlour on such a day.’

Lucie pressed Owen’s hand. ‘As you said this morning, we are all a bit childish at present. These are fearful times.’

‘Not so bad as the previous two.’

‘A death is a death, Owen.’

‘Aye. But he is more than childish, Lucie. To destroy a house for the stones.’

‘It is not such an odd idea to me, my love. And for what better purpose?’

‘I am wrong?’

Lucie stopped, turned to him, took both his hands. ‘Perhaps to criticise his scheme so fiercely, my love. But not to insist on my need of you.’

‘And what of involving myself in the troubles at St Leonard’s?’

‘Who better than you, my love?’

Owen was silent.

‘Well? Who better?’

‘Why do you think he is willing to stop at Freythorpe?’

Always suspicious. Lucie lifted Owen’s hands, turned them palms upwards, kissed them in turn, looked him in the eye. ‘Do not question it, just be thankful he will do it. He is proud of Hugh and Gwenllian. If aught is amiss, we shall hear quickly.’ She could tell from his eye that he did not share her confidence. She was suddenly fearful.

Alisoun arrived at the farm long after sunset. She was relieved to find the nag in the enclosed field, sleeping under the stars. Alisoun gave her a spoonful of her aunt’s facial concoction, having brought a goodly portion with her, and she promised to give the horse a brushing in the morning and to apply more salve to her wound. The nag whinnied softly as Alisoun slipped away: a pleasant, companionable sound in her solitude. Not like the crickets whose night song made the farm seem lonelier. The crickets’ chorus was a sound the girl associated with heading out in the dark to relieve herself, or lying awake in the cottage unable to sleep.

As she entered the yard, Alisoun paused. She sensed company, not by sound or sight, but by a prickling at the back of her neck that her father had taught her to respect. Someone had come to rob them. Or take over the farm. It was just what Alisoun had feared. And her uncle was to blame with his silly idea of bringing her to his house. She stood as still as possible, studying the barn and house, seeking a glimmer of light that would tell her where she might find the intruder. But all was dark. Was she imagining it? Who but she could find their way round these buildings at night?

Unless the dead walked. Alisoun crossed herself. Not that her family had any cause to harm her from the other side of the grave, but to see them once they had passed to the other side … They would be different. She did not like to think of that. It frightened her that they would have been changed by death. Would she know them? Would they know her?

Alisoun felt her stomach going queer. She forced her mind from such thoughts, peered into the darkness. And then she saw it. A flickering light up in the barn’s loft.

Whence came the light? Her stomach leapt and tumbled. The spirits of the dead might be wrapped in light. And angels: might they not glow? Like the stars?

Alisoun shook her head and considered the light. Surely angels, pure beings, would glow with white light. And they would not flicker because they would be perfect. This was a candle or a lantern, no spectre.

An intruder then. She found that comforting. She could deal with an intruder. Taking a deep breath to steady herself and quiet her stomach, Alisoun strung her bow, readied an arrow, and crept across the yard to the barn. The warped door to the barn was slightly open, so she might slip in without a sound. But would the intruder see her? She paused, considered. She could not call on her memory to predict how the light the intruder carried up there would fall on the floor below. Her father had never taken a light up to the loft because it was much too easy to spark a fire in the barn.

Alisoun crept close to the opening, peered inside, withdrew her head quickly, her heart pounding. God must be watching over her. Had she crept in without first looking, the intruder would have seen her. He sat at the top of the ladder, his feet resting on the top rung, a lantern dangling from one hand. And he was watching the door. Had he heard her? But she had been as quiet as could be. Adults did not hear that well, unless they had trained themselves to hear. Hunters and soldiers had trained hearing. Alisoun knew he was neither. Or she was fairly certain he wasn’t. But now that she thought of it, she was not sure what he was. Or who. All she knew was that her mother had tried to keep this man’s visits secret.

It had been almost a fortnight since Alisoun had hailed the fisherman on the river. More than a week since the Riverwoman and the archer had been there. Folk never kept quiet. One of them or all three of them might have spoken of the deaths. Alisoun felt undeniably sick to her stomach now. It must be that he had heard about her family. He might not know she had survived. Or if he did, he would expect her to be with her kin.

Alisoun imagined him in the house, in the barn, walking round her land. She did not like it. She had never liked him. She did not like that he’d been through the house and barn, that he had touched her things. She hated him.

She would shoot him. But she couldn’t while he held that lantern in his hands for he might drop it in the hay and set the barn on fire. So she prepared herself for a long wait.

Waiting was the worst part. The crickets seemed louder, the night sky darker and closer. She must not think about her prey else she might grow angrier and that would make her more likely to miss. She forced herself to think about the two who had come to bury her family. The old hag she had seen before, when her mother had given birth to her brother and sister. What Alisoun remembered about those events was how her mother had suffered. Especially after her brother’s birth. Her mother had said that the Riverwoman was a trustworthy midwife. But her mother had been so weak with her brother’s birth, and he had been such a troublesome, weak baby. Alisoun had decided that the Riverwoman had poisoned her mother, or put a curse on her. Yet when Alisoun had searched the loft after the Riverwoman and the one-eyed soldier had returned the horse and cart, certain that they had gone up there while she was hiding in the wood, she had found naught out of place. So the old woman and the archer were honest.

A rustle from within. Alisoun checked her bow, slipped into the barn. Her patience was rewarded. The intruder had set the lantern down on a ledge near the nag’s stall and was searching the nag’s hay, his back turned. Nicely illuminated, he presented an easier target than Alisoun’s usual coneys. She shot, hit the back of his leg just below the knee. As he cursed and stumbled, she drew another arrow, waited until he faced her, then shot him in the upper arm. Or had she hit his shoulder? She did not stop to make sure. She ran.

The moon shone on the quiet village. A barking dog rushed towards Alisoun. For a moment, her heart pounded. But she reminded herself that he knew her, had licked her hand a few days earlier when she had passed through with her uncle. As he reached her, he paused, ceased his barking, sniffed the air. Then he cautiously circled round her, sniffing. And again. And again. His circles grew smaller and smaller, but it took five for him to remember her. Then at last he stood in her path and barked once, his tail wagging, demanding her attention. Alisoun dropped to a crouch and patted him, hoping to quiet him.

‘Who goes there?’ a man shouted from a house.

Alisoun’s head shot up. Could he see her? The moon was behind clouds, so she could not identify the vague form in the doorway. But that was good. If she could hardly pick out the man in the gloom, he could not see her well, either.

‘Come, boy, come here,’ the man called.

The dog hesitated, then ran to him, barking.

At that moment Alisoun took off. She knew that as soon as the dog reached his master, he would head back to Alisoun, barking for his master to follow.

She beat the dog to the church, let herself in, shut the door and slumped down against it, exhausted. Sanctuary at last. He could not come for her here. She could safely sleep, and in the morning she would pray God to forgive her for wounding the man. As she began to nod, she felt a chill draft from beneath the door, where it did not quite meet the stone threshold. Though the day had been hot, the stone church was damp and cool. She crawled away to a more sheltered corner and settled once more. Within moments she was fast asleep.