The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Eight

The sun had appeared in mid-afternoon and by evening the city was warmed and humid. Sweat trickled down Bess’s neck as she made her way among the tables. The York Tavern was far from bustling, but not empty. Though many stayed out of crowds for fear that someone’s breath or clothes might carry plague, there were those who believed that ale and wine fortified them. A group of the determined souls was huddled close at a long table, speaking in low voices of the latest plague victim, William Franklin. But their voices were not so low that Bess could not hear.

‘They say he brought it from St Leonard’s,’ Jack Crum said.

‘Aye. He should have stayed there.’ Old Bede slumped in his chair, his greasy white hair sticking out in all directions from running his hands through it in his agitation.

‘Why should he die at the spital? A man wants to die at home. Will’s house was in the city, not in the liberty of St Leonard’s,’ said another.

‘Aye. He sickened at home,’ said a third. ‘But he did come and go from spital, all the same. And when he fell sick, two lay sisters from spital stayed at his bedside.’

‘With the pestilence upon us the corrodians should stay put. Or give up their allotment till it passes,’ Old Bede growled. ‘They carry it with them.’

‘You’re daft,’ John Cooper said, rising. His face was flushed with ale and emotion. ‘We have lost seventy-odd folk to the pestilence in the city and only ten of those at St Leonard’s. How can you say the folk from the spital carry it?’

‘We’d have none of it without them,’ Bede insisted.

‘It was a child in the city died first, you ignorant old man. A tanner’s daughter.’

‘Watch your tongue, Cooper,’ one of Bede’s elderly supporters growled.

John Cooper shoved past Old Bede, paused for a parting shot. ‘You hate the corrodians for their comfortable situations, old man, but mayhap you should thank God you could not find the coin to buy a corrody — though pestilence be not the danger.’

Old Bede spat on the floor at Cooper’s feet. ‘You’ve a mouth on you, John Cooper. I’ll thank you to keep it shut.’

Cooper sneered and made his way towards the door.

Bess Merchet hurried after him. Cooper’s last comment intrigued her. She caught his elbow as he reached the door. He shrugged her off roughly. ‘Have a care, John,’ Bess murmured, ‘’tis the hand that pours your ale.’

He glanced round, shamefaced. ‘I thought you were one of Old Bede’s fellows, aching for trouble. Did I hurt you?’

‘Whist! It takes more than a nudge to knock me down. But to make amends you might tell me what you meant when you said the old man should thank God.’

Cooper hesitated, glanced round, obviously wishing to make a quick escape. But he motioned for Bess to step outside with him. Cooper stood beneath the lantern beside the door. He was a solemn, quiet man, with a face that Bess had often thought might be pleasant if ever lit by a smile.

‘You are thinking of your uncle,’ Cooper said.

‘I am.’

‘I heard he was burned trying to save Laurence de Warrene.’

‘He is healing. Why should Old Bede be thankful?’

‘I am not one to listen to rumours — or spread them, Mistress Merchet. But that old man put me in mind of something I heard. There’s talk that too many corrodians are dying of a sudden. Just when the spital is short of funds …’

‘I have heard those rumours, and more. Old Bede is fond of them. But there is no question three of the corrodians died of pestilence.’ Still, Bess shivered. The night had grown chilly and the river mist was damp on her skin.

‘Matilda de Warrene, mayhap, too many saw her suffering, though she was a frail one. But Will Franklin and John Rudby’ — Cooper cocked his head to one side — ‘who saw them but lay sisters and brothers from St Leonard’s? And Laurence de Warrene — now there’s something passing strange about his accident. How many times in a man’s life does he light a fire and not even singe a hair on his head? Why did that fire take him? That’s what folk are wondering. And poor, stumbling Walter de Hotter. He did not die of pestilence.’

Bess studied the man’s eyes. He believed what he said, though she doubted he knew her uncle had been attacked. ‘Why corrodians?’

‘Living too long.’ The blunt reply made Cooper uneasy. ‘What I say is not how I feel, Mistress Merchet. You understand that?’

‘I do. But I pray you, explain yourself.’

‘The corrodians pay a sum, reckoned on some assumptions: they are elderly, they have decided to retire from active life, and so they will likely soon sicken and die. The sum is set high, hoping that they die before it is used up in supporting them. Else why take them in? But some folk are too long-lived.’

Bess felt a queer chill down her spine. Certainly her Uncle Julian had outlived his fee. As no doubt had Laurence and Matilda. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘It is whispered all about town.’

‘God bless you for telling me what you have heard, John.’

‘God go with you.’ John moved away from the wall. ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Forgive me if I’ve worried you. Julian Taverner is a clever man. More so than his friend. You’ve naught to worry about with him.’

Bess found that comment surprisingly naïve. No one, no matter how cunning, was ever safe from all harm.

Flexing his fingers in the looser bandages, Julian Taverner wondered at the difference two days of the new ointment had made. His fingers were tender, but not so tight. His aching shoulder was much improved by Mistress Wilton’s mustard ointment. And the tisane his niece brought him several times a day eased his headache miraculously. He must think of a way to show his gratitude. They had traded harsh words the previous day, and he was sorry for that. Bess thought it best that Honoria kept her distance. But Julian saw no harm in enjoying a pretty face.

Not that Honoria’s devotion to him was without its problems. Julian liked Anneys — he found her crisp competence reassuring and she was comely despite her lined face — and he did not wish to antagonise her. But there it was. Honoria’s cheery visits inspired frowns of disapproval from Anneys. Then again, he did not know whether pursuit of Anneys would prove rewarding.

That morning Julian had found Anneys a disturbing presence. He had been haunted by painful memories and had been trying to push them aside with prayer when Anneys had arrived. Setting her trays of medicines down on his bedside table, Anneys had stood back and shaken her head. ‘You pray in such earnest this morning, Master Taverner.’

‘I would be away from that coughing.’

Anneys cocked her head, listened. ‘Mistress Catherine. She cannot help it.’

‘My mother had such a cough.’

Anneys sat down beside him. ‘And you do not like to remember her?’

‘She died of such a cough.’

‘Ah.’ Anneys shook out a linen cloth, draped it on the bed, began to arrange the medicines. ‘What of your wife? Is it true she was lost at sea?’

Sweet Heaven, how had she touched the ache so accurately? ‘My wife and my only child.’

‘You speak of it as if you still feel pain. Yet it must have happened long ago. They tell me you have been a corrodian of St Leonard’s for nineteen years.’

Some pain took longer to lessen. Yet it was true, they had died a few years before the first visitation of the plague. Julian turned away. He did not like this conversation.

‘I do not believe in remembering only the good, Master Taverner. God brought us suffering to cleanse us. We must not shrink from it.’

‘I have done more penance than you can imagine. And Laurence with me. Now I wish to be left in peace.’ Julian felt his eyes burning. Now look what her prying had done. He would embarrass himself with tears.

Anneys opened his shift at the shoulder, applied the warm mustard ointment. As she worked it into the stiff joint, she asked, ‘Penance? Both of you? For what sin?’

‘I would rather not speak of it.’

‘There was a strong bond between you and Master Warrene. Were you comrades-in-arms?’

‘Nay. Neither of us were for soldiering. We grew up side by side in Scarborough, went into business together.’

‘The tavern?’

Why must she ask so many questions? ‘No, Laurence was never a taverner. This is unfair, you know. You have told me nothing of your past.’

‘There is little to tell. I married, raised three children, I was widowed and offered my services here.’

‘Three children. Did you not wish to live with any of them?’

‘No.’ Anneys closed up his shift, helped him sit up so she might examine the bandage on his head wound. ‘Now I have told you of my life. I thought you were a taverner.’

‘I was.’

‘And yet you say you went into business with Master Warrene, a business that was not a tavern.’

‘You do not wish to go into detail, neither do I.’

‘Why is that, Master Taverner?’

He winced as she probed the wound. ‘Why do you not wish to tell me more of your life?’

‘There is little joy in the tale. And you? Why do you not wish to speak of the business?’

‘Because I lived to regret it and did great penance for it. I have told you how I worked among abandoned victims when the pestilence first came to the north.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember.’ She moved to his hands, completing her ministrations in silence.

For that Julian was truly grateful. Perhaps he did not like her looks so much. Honoria was far more comforting.

Lucie had gone out into the garden to work before opening the shop. Owen sat up above watching her, wondering what he might do to cheer her.

Kate knocked on the door. ‘Mistress Merchet begs a word with you, Captain.’

‘She is here?’

‘Below, Captain. Whatever it is, it is not good news.’

Owen found Bess down in the hall pacing, arms bent and pumping, hands clenched into fists, her eyes blazing and colour high.

‘They have accused Julian of setting the fire, have they?’ Owen asked when Bess turned towards him. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest.

Bess paused. ‘Who is spreading such an untruth?’

Owen pointed at his visitor. ‘’Tis you put the thought in my head, by your foul mood. Why else would you be so angry?’

‘Angry?’

‘That is how you appear to me.’

‘I was but thinking.’

Owen pushed himself off the wall and, taking Bess by the elbow, escorted her to the table set up beneath the south windows. ‘Come, sit down and tell me what thoughts make you pump the air.’

Bess sat down, clutching her hands before her. ‘Forgive me for intruding. I know it is a difficult time.’

Owen leaned across the table, slipped one hand under Bess’s and laid his other on top. He levelled his good eye at her.

Bess grinned down at her hands cradled in Owen’s. ‘If you meant to distract me, you have succeeded, you handsome rogue.’

‘Good. I want no eruptions in my hall, just quiet talk. What is troubling you?’

‘Bless you for asking. I need your advice. I’ve quite a tale to tell.’ Bess recounted her uncle’s description of the events surrounding the fire at St Leonard’s and described the wounds she had seen on the two friends.

‘It does not sound like an accident.’

Bess pounded her fist on the table with satisfaction, sat back. ‘No more than Walter de Hotter’s death. Indeed. Do you know what John Cooper said last night?’ She told Owen.

‘Rumours. You must pay them no heed. They will send you down the wrong path for certain.’

Bess threw up her hands. ‘Then how do I find the right path?’

‘Find out if anyone witnessed the accident, Bess. That is the only certain way to know the truth.’

‘Cuthbert has me watched at the spital. I am herded to my uncle’s bed. I cannot go elsewhere.’

‘He is worried about the very rumours you repeated, Bess.’

‘Oh, aye. He is right to worry.’ She suddenly tossed her head, letting her ribbons bob merrily and gave him her most engaging smile. ‘You would not …’

‘No, Bess. I want no part of it. You would soon grow impatient with me anyway. My skill as a spy is naught compared to yours.’

Bess’s expressive face was caught between a smile and a frown.

Owen had no intention of being drawn into Bess’s concerns. He had worries enough with the children away, Lucie’s melancholy, the pestilence, Thoresby’s absence and the constant stream of frightened customers begging for plague cures. Bess had time to spare at present — pestilence meant few travellers, and many folk avoiding public places as much as possible. But she was a good friend. Perhaps a suggestion.

‘Don Erkenwald is also uneasy. You might speak to him.’

‘I doubt Cuthbert will let me.’

‘I have never known anyone strong enough to stop you when you are determined, my friend.’

Barker the gatekeeper bowed stiffly and gingerly placed two Italian glass goblets on the cellarer’s table.

Cuthbert recognised them as part of the set missing from the guesthouse. ‘You found these in your search?’ He had ordered a search of all the spital and the houses in the city belonging to St Leonard’s.

‘In the room of Mistress Staines, Domine.’ Barker wiped his hands on his doublet. ‘And other items I did not care to bring. Personal, you see. But not of a sort should belong to a lay sister.’

Cuthbert closed his eyes, pressed his hands together, rocked on his feet. Honoria de Staines. So he had been a fool to trust her. ‘What other items, Barker?’

A pause.

The cellarer glanced at the gatekeeper, noted his red face. ‘Personal items, you said. Shifts, perhaps?’

Barker nodded with grateful enthusiasm. ‘Aye, Domine. Of finest silk they are. And a wimple of heavy silk. I thought to tell you. To my mind ’tis not fitting a lay sister should own such things.’

Indeed not. But a whore might. Or a thief. ‘You were quite right, Barker. And these goblets, where in her room did you find them?’

‘Hidden in a chest. Wrapped in some old cloths.’

‘I see. Did you find anything else? Naught in any other rooms or elsewhere within St Leonard’s liberty?’

‘Naught, Domine.’

Only the woman who had so fooled him. His fellow Austins would be much amused. ‘God go with you, Barker. You have done a good day’s work.’

Cuthbert sent for Honoria.

She entered his parlour, hands folded meekly, eyes downcast. ‘Don Cuthbert. They have told me what you found.’ She was a small woman with a soft, caressing voice, even now when she must be fearful.

‘Can you explain yourself?’

‘It is not what you think. I am guilty of betraying your trust, yes, I admit to that. But I did not steal the goblets.’

‘Why then did you hide them away?’

‘Italian glass goblets were mentioned as missing from the guesthouse. I worried lest my fellow sisters might think mine were those goblets.’

‘They are of the set.’

Only now did Honoria lift her eyes to meet Cuthbert’s. They were wide set, round, like a doe’s. ‘Of the set? But that cannot be.’

‘Whence came the goblets?’

She returned to her study of the floor. ‘They were a gift.’

‘From whom?’

‘I would rather not say, Domine,’ she said quietly but firmly.

‘He may be the thief of St Leonard’s, Honoria. You will tell me.’

‘He cannot be. They were his to give. He swore that they were.’

‘You would protect this man, though your own salvation be forfeit for him? Excommunication is the punishment for one who enters the hospital to do violence or to steal. Did you know that?’ Cuthbert thought he detected a shiver.

But Honoria’s voice was still calm as she said, ‘God will not so punish me for something of which I am innocent, Domine.’

‘You deny that you stole the goblets. Yet you confess you have betrayed my trust. Have you lain with men since taking your vows?’

She dropped to her knees, touched her forehead to Cuthbert’s feet. ‘I am innocent of what you accuse me.’

Cuthbert backed away from her. ‘You have made a fool of me once, Mistress Staines. You shall not a second time.’ He walked to the door with purposeful strides that made him feel tall. ‘Barker!’ he shouted.