The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Epilogue

From dawn onwards, all employees of the York Tavern felt the brunt of Bess’s frustration. If perfect cleanliness was possible, they would achieve it this day. Scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, polishing, and Bess herself doing the work of three. She could not believe the ingratitude shown her the previous evening by Owen and Lucie. Shoving her out of the house as if she were any old busybody. For pity’s sake, it was her uncle’s death and his claims about Laurence’s death that had made folk see that something was amiss. And all the days she had sacrificed to assist Owen. Small thanks she received for it.

By midday, she was exhausted. ‘I shall have a rest now, Tom. See that they don’t slacken their pace.’

Up in her bedchamber, she flung open the shutters to get a breeze. It had all begun here, when she had smelled the fire. The sky was blue today, and but for the tolling of St Mary’s bell, it was passing quiet. That was another frustration; after all her effort, Brother Wulfstan had passed away. What was God about these days?

And what was that? She leaned farther out of the window. Merciful Mother, it was His Grace the Archbishop of York coming out of Stonegate into the square with a dark-haired child clutching his left hand, a babe in his right arm. Brother Michaelo walked behind him carrying a large basket. She squinted. The babe had flame-red hair. Bess turned and hurried down the stairs.

‘Tom! You will never guess what the archbishop has returned to us. Stop that noise and listen to me.’

Tom paused with a wooden mallet in mid-air; he was trying to hammer a pewter plate flat once more. ‘What is it, wife?’

‘Gwenllian and Hugh. His Grace has brought them back from the country.’

‘There is a tale to tell in that, I would guess.’

‘I should attend them. See whether they have enough food.’

‘You would do better to wait until summoned.’

But she was already mounting the stairs. A splash to her face, neck and hands, off with the apron and on with one of her beribboned caps and she would be presentable, even to an archbishop.

She arrived in time to witness tearful greetings. Lucie’s were not entirely tears of joy as she clutched Hugh to her.

‘Sir Robert is ill,’ Thoresby was telling her, ‘and thus your aunt and I thought it best the children be brought away from him.’

‘Pestilence?’ Lucie asked in a whisper.

‘No. A chill brought on by a tumble into the pond. It seems he was jousting with Gwenllian.’

The dark-haired two year old sat in her father’s lap, solemnly listening. Owen stroked her hair, curly and wiry as his own. ‘That does not mean you are to blame, Gwenllian.’

She said nothing, but grabbed Owen’s hand and held on tight.

‘Is he very ill?’ Lucie asked.

Thoresby motioned to Michaelo to take the basket to the kitchen. ‘At his age, any illness is difficult, Mistress Wilton. Dame Phillippa seemed anxious, but I think it was the children worried her.’

Perhaps it was not the time to interrupt, Bess thought. She was backing out of the doorway when Owen noticed her.

‘Come in, Bess, come in.’

‘Your Grace,’ she bobbed a curtsey. ‘I had to come see whether my eyes tricked me.’ She gave the children hugs, glanced over the well set table. So there was to be a feast.

‘She has sharp eyes, Your Grace,’ Owen said. ‘And was a great help to me in finding the truth about her uncle’s death.’

‘Which I have yet to hear, neighbour,’ Bess reminded him.

‘You are a woman of many gifts, Mistress Merchet,’ Thoresby said. ‘I shall remember you if ever I need another spy.’

Bess shook her head until her ribbons bobbed. That was the last thing she wished. ‘I pray you, think not of me for such work, Your Grace. Managing the tavern is more to my liking.’ But it was pleasing to be praised for something other than her housekeeping. ‘Though I do admit I have a certain knack for it.’