The Riverwoman’s Dragon

16 A Desperate Yearning

Owen woke before dawn, alone in the bed. Shrugging on his clothes he stepped out onto the landing. Lamplight spilled from the room in which Beatrice slept. He heard Lucie’s voice, another, a mere whisper, responding. He moved closer.

A murmured exchange, then the rustle of movement and Lucie appeared in the doorway, her hair tumbling about her, a shawl over her shift. ‘Beatrice is awake and wishes to speak with you.’

Glancing in, he saw her sitting up against cushions holding a cup to her lips. Had Lucie slept?

‘She is willing to tell me all she knows?’

Lucie stepped outside, telling Beatrice she would be right back. ‘Yes. She called it shriving. For her soul.’ Her eyes were shadowed, and he saw traces of tears.

‘Her story moved you,’ said Owen.

‘She has told me little. It is Michaelo’s sad news. Goodwife Anna died in the night.’

Owen crossed himself. ‘It was the pestilence?’

‘Yes. I am angry with myself for giving him false hope.’

‘He wished to believe.’

‘I mentioned that you might have need of him. She has agreed to have both of you present. Shall I ask him to come up?’

‘Michaelo is here?’

‘In the kitchen. Kate is coaxing him to eat something. Go prepare yourself. Then bring him up?’

Michaelo sat bolt upright in front of the kitchen fire. He stared at nothing, a cup of ale forgotten in his hands. He had not even bothered to shave his tonsure or his face this morning. ‘Such a strong woman.’

Owen remembered the strong hands with which Anna had kneaded the back of an injured man, giving him comfort. ‘She was. But the sickness respects no one.’

‘No.’

Heading out for the midden, Owen found himself praying for his children, tears in his eyes. That was the one thing his ruined left eye could still do – produce tears. Back in the kitchen, while he ate a piece of bread with cheese and washed it down with ale Michaelo spoke of Anna’s suffering, the long night, her death in the early hours. He saw that the monk had brought his writing materials.

‘Are you certain you are ready for work?’

‘I need to be of use.’

Carrying a pitcher and several bowls, Owen led him up to the solar. Beatrice greeted them with a benedicite. Owen noticed Lucie’s late aunt’s paternoster in the woman’s lap.

‘I do not deserve all that you and Dame Lucie have done for me,’ Beatrice said. ‘I have sinned against God and caused so much pain.’

Owen took the seat near the foot of the bed. ‘I am glad to see you so recovered.’

Michaelo stationed himself beneath the window.

Lucie placed a table in front of him, then returned to her own seat across the pallet. ‘You wished to unburden yourself to my husband,’ she said.

Knowing she must still be weak, Owen considered what would be most useful to hear. ‘Could you begin with the plans for yesterday morning?’

‘I was to leave the city by Micklegate Bar with my maidservant and a manservant, going to my family home. Gavin would send for me when he was settled in Leeds under a new name.’

Interesting detail. ‘Why did that not happen?’ Owen asked.

She shook her head, her face so pale Owen thought she might faint. Lucie bent to her, asking what she needed.

‘To begin afresh with dear Guthlac. To have the chance to refuse his gift of children.’

‘His gift of children?’ Owen asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

Her fingers sought the beads in her lap. ‘My husband knew he could not give me children. He offered an alternative, to lie with his son.’

Owen glanced at Lucie and knew by the subtle shift away from the woman that she shared his surprise about Guthlac’s part in the triangle. But that was a priest’s concern, not his.

‘I saw that he meant it as a kindness, and – God help me, I took it as such.’ Her voice broke. ‘How I came to think it a little thing, confessed and washed away afterward– I knew it was wicked. I knew we would pay dearly. But for it to be our babies, my Geoff and Mary, my sweet ones … How they burned with the fever. As if to burn out the sin in which they were conceived.’ She sobbed. ‘They died in my arms.’

Lucie took her hands. ‘You should rest.’

‘No. I must tell you now. I fear I won’t find the courage again. I’ve never confessed my sin because I could not promise not to sin again. I knew that I would. I missed my babies. I prayed for another. And I loved him.’

Owen gave her a moment before asking, ‘What was Bernard’s part in all this? Where was he to have been yesterday?’

Her face had flushed with the confession, and now the color rose sharply. ‘When Gavin brought him to the house– From that moment I feared for myself and my husband. Gavin assured me that Bernard understood my husband’s condition far better than the Riverwoman. He made much of that in front of the leech. But in truth Gavin and my husband had forbidden Dame Magda in our home long before Bernard came. They feared she knew of our deception, that the children could not be Guthlac’s, that their deaths of the pestilence were our punishment for our grievous sin.’

‘You know little of Dame Magda if you believed that.’ Lucie’s voice was quiet, not accusing.

‘But what was Bernard’s part in this?’ Owen asked.

‘For his services he was to receive a goodly sum. I do not know how much.’

‘He, too, would go to Leeds?’

‘No. Gavin assured me that he would be no part of our new life. I realized he did not trust Bernard, and the man knew it. He confronted Gavin. They had a row the night before the funeral. Loud. Ugly. Gavin said he sent him away.’

‘Did you see him leave?’ Owen asked.

‘No. But Gavin told me he did.’

‘We found the leech rolled up in a rug in the cart, drugged with the physick he had used on your husband.’

‘Gavin did that? No. Is the leech–’

‘He is recovering, and will answer for his crimes.’

Clutching the beads, she crossed herself. ‘God forgive us.’

‘What of Gavin’s relationship with Gemma Toller?’ Lucie asked. ‘Did you know about her?’

‘Not until that night, the night before our departure. Gavin gave me brandywine to calm me. The pains were coming. He said it was grief and worry. But all would be well. I should rest before the journey. I remember the pains worsening, but then I slept. When I woke in the early morning, before light, the pain was much, much worse. I called for help. She came. Sam’s widow. She wore one of my gowns and I thought it must be a dream. She shook me and told me to dress, it was time to depart. She tore the bedclothes away. When she saw the blood she ran from the room. Two men pulled me out of the bed and carried me out to the garden. I thought they meant to bundle me in the cart but they put me in the shed. I could not– Did Gavin never mean to wed me? Did our children mean nothing to him? Why was Sam’s widow there?’

Owen had heard Gemma’s side. That she had always been the one meant for Gavin. But how to tell this woman the truth? He could not, not now.

‘I am grateful for all you have told me, Dame Beatrice. It will help me when talking to Gavin and Bernard.’ Owen glanced at Michaelo, who nodded that he was ready. ‘Rest now. When I feel I know the truth of the matter, we will speak again.’

Lucie handed Beatrice the bowl, urging her to drink deep.

The cruelty of Beatrice’s treatment slowed Owen’s steps as he turned toward the castle. When he snapped at a child racing past he judged himself too angry to confront Gavin Wolcott just yet. Instead he turned toward St Mary’s Abbey. The king’s men would prevent him from murdering Alan, but he might frighten him into confessing his part.

‘The infirmary?’ Michaelo looked doubtful.

‘Surely Brother Henry will permit you to perform your duty for me,’ said Owen.

With a shrug, the monk followed him to the abbey.

The infirmarian’s bleary eyes told a tale of a difficult patient.

‘Alan wakes?’ Owen asked.

‘Yes, God help us. When he understood where he was and why, I have never heard such language, spewing curses in ear-piercing shrieks as he fought against his restraints and accused us of sending him to his death. I quieted him with a soporific, but not so much that he cannot respond.’

‘Has he been questioned?’

‘By one of the king’s men, yes. He loudly denies assisting Monsieur Ricard. Says he has never heard the name, nor will he admit to being Alan Rawcliff. He answers only to “Master Bernard”.’

‘The king’s men believe him?’

‘No. They are eager to speak with you.’

‘I know little more than I did last night. Except that his physick poisoned the womb of Beatrice Wolcott, killing the child she carried and bringing the mother perilously close to death. Albeit her condition was worsened by her abandonment to suffer the miscarriage alone in a cold, dark, filthy shack.’

‘He did that?’

‘Not the abandonment. That is another’s crime. He is still in the infirmary?’

‘Sadly, yes. Abbot William refused my request to move him where he might be isolated and spare my other patients.’

Owen glanced round, saw three monastic patients, two of them elderly. ‘Poor men.’

‘I provided them with waxed cloths to place in their ears to dull the sound, and a sleeping tonic last night.’

‘You are a kind man.’

The monk’s usual gentle smile made a brief appearance. ‘I am called to heal, not to torment. But enough of my woes. You will wish to speak with Alan.’

‘I want a written record of his confession. Will you permit my secretary to attend me?’

The gentle eyes hardened. ‘You do not mean Brother Michaelo?’

‘I do.’ Owen held his gaze, gently, but firmly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Henry bowed. ‘For you and His Grace,’ he said.

Michaelo slipped quietly behind Owen, becoming his shadow as Henry showed them to a screened corner away from the windows looking onto the gardens. Standing before the narrow break in the screens was a muscular man in royal livery. He bobbed his head to Owen and Michaelo, standing aside to allow them through.

The bruises on Alan’s face remained, but the swelling had eased and his cold eyes were trained on Owen.

‘Come to gloat with an audience, Archer?’

‘No. To talk. My secretary will record what you say.’

‘You waste your time.’

‘I see. You think your argument so weak that you would not consider an exchange of information that might ease your punishment?’

‘Prince Edward show mercy?’ The man’s rasping laughter dissolved into a coughing fit.

A novice hurried through the opening with a cup. ‘Honeyed water,’ he said to Owen, who nodded his approval.

The young man knelt beside Alan’s pallet, assisting him in drinking for his hands were bound beside him. Owen took the opportunity to position a stool where he might see Alan’s face, then waited. When at last Alan turned away, the novice rose, bobbing his head to Owen and slipping out.

‘Gavin Wolcott blames all on you.’ A lie for which Owen would do penance. But if it revealed the culprits …

‘Greedy whoreson. What information do you need to hang him?’

‘Tell me all that you know of Wolcott’s plans. Exactly what he hired you to do.’

‘His father was dying. Poisoned by the witch. He needed a leech, that is all.’

‘You cannot hide behind your lies. His Grace Prince Edward has sent men throughout the realm searching for you as part of the traitor Monsieur Ricard’s household. Your flight was your first mistake. Now he has reports from Bishop Bokyngham of Lincoln regarding your crimes in his city. Poisoning Guthlac Wolcott, his widow, and his unborn child are merely additions to the case against you.’

‘I poisoned no one.’

‘Then tell me what Gavin Wolcott hired you to do. And what you know of his plans.’

Lucie glanced back over her shoulder, touched Jasper’s arm. ‘Will you finish Dame Felice’s requests?’ she asked. ‘I am needed in the workroom.’

With a smile to melt the iciest of hearts, Jasper suggested an addition to the elderly woman’s remedies for aching joints.

Slipping away, Lucie joined Owen in the back. ‘What is it?’

‘I need a moment of your calm so that I don’t march to the castle and murder Wolcott.’

‘Shall we walk in the garden?’

‘Alan tells a darker tale than Gavin,’ Owen began. ‘He says he started with bleeding, as Gavin wished his father to weaken just enough not to interfere.’

‘Is that not what Gavin told you yesterday?’

‘Ah, but when Beatrice told Gavin she was with child he wanted Guthlac hastened to his death before folk in the city noticed her condition. Alan claimed that he balked, but Gavin offered him considerable wealth in property. He then mixed a physick and gave instructions for a minimal dose. Nothing lethal. He says that it was Gavin who began to double and triple the dosage.’

‘Nothing that Alan Rawcliff can prove,’ said Lucie. ‘But his duty was to refuse to continue treating Guthlac.’

‘He seems to feel he did what he could. Yet when I persisted he admitted some concern about how often he replenished the physick.’

‘Do not grace the concoction with that word. Poison is what it was. And he failed in his duty. So he learned the art of poison from his master?’

‘It seems Gavin Wolcott provided most of the ingredients.’

‘Which is why you found nothing in his things,’ said Lucie. ‘And Beatrice? Did he echo Gavin’s story about her?’

‘Alan Rawcliff swears the children had all been Gavin’s and that he used Beatrice until she had signed over all her property, then meant to kill her. But Alan had nobly refused to provide more of the physick.’

Lucie took Owen’s hands. ‘Magda would tell you to look through your third eye. You can sense where the truth lies.’

‘But when I am so angry …’

‘That is why we talk it through, my love.’

He pulled her into his arms whispering into her hair, ‘How was I ever so blessed?’

She held him close, listening to his heart. Strong. Steady. ‘I have all faith in you.’ Stepping away, she kissed his cheek and nodded. ‘They disgust you.’

‘Gavin cruelly used Beatrice, as did his father. I am certain of that. Alan saw an opportunity for sufficient wealth to create a new life. Gemma coldly left Beatrice in that condition. And Beatrice …’ Owen stopped. Lucie saw the pity in his eye. ‘I cannot see why she would permit Alan to continue to attend her husband when suddenly a healthy man was so weak. She is not completely innocent of her husband’s death.’

‘Once stepping onto the dark path …’ She pressed Owen’s hands to her heart and kissed his forehead. ‘I will bring you some brandywine to warm you while we talk more. Sit here, or pace the garden paths. I will return.’

Sir William Perciehay, sheriff of Yorkshire, wished Owen and the king’s men to ride out to the manor on which he was hiding from the pestilence. As it was they who were extending him the courtesy of the report they felt no obligation, declining his invitation and instead sending a messenger with a letter summarizing Owen’s assessment of the case against Gavin Wolcott, Gemma Toller, Alan Rawcliff, and the various servants and warehousemen, including the supposed archer, a former warehouseman Gavin had met on Graa’s property in Galtres, whom Hempe and his men were chasing down. He made special mention of the conflagration caused by Gavin’s firing of both the warehouse and the Browns’ home, such a blaze in a city being a particular danger. Brother Michaelo’s fine work.

Owen and the king’s men met instead in the mayor’s chamber on Ouse Bridge to hear Owen’s assessment. He did not wish to say it all twice.

Graa listened with growing unease. ‘A viper in our midst,’ he hissed once, then busied himself brushing imaginary crumbs from his lap, swirling the wine in his mazer, anything but meet Owen’s gaze.

Ignoring his discomfort, Owen completed his account without pause, after which he answered a few lackluster questions. As Graa cleared his throat and began to rise, Owen addressed him, suggesting he extend a public apology to Magda Digby and the other female healers for failing to come to their defense.

‘A public apology?’ The mayor’s voice crackled with indignation. ‘I had nothing to do with this. It is the archbishop who should do penance,’ Graa said, ‘surely not the civil authority.’

‘The archbishop does not maintain the peace in the city,’ said Owen. He looked to the king’s men. ‘And it would seem that your failure to apprehend Alan Rawcliff when he was in Lincoln was a part of this business.’

Minor knights, the two looked to the mayor for his support. But Thomas Graa was nodding.

‘Indeed, it was not you who apprehended him, but the captain of York. For that, I and my fellows on the council should be commended on our wise decision to elevate Owen Archer to the position,’ said Graa.

‘We knew nothing of Rawcliff’s presence in York until the sheriff wrote to Bishop Bokyngham,’ said the king’s man Sir John. ‘And then your archdeacon. It was the bishop’s negligence while Rawcliff troubled his city that brought this on York.’

Graa looked down his nose at them, muttering what was clearly an insult. Owen had stopped listening to the chattering jays.

Saying he had completed his duty in the matter, all but arranging the escort for Dame Beatrice when she was moved to the infirmary at St Clement’s on the morrow, Owen gave a curt bow and departed.

Eyes closed, Magda was one with her dragon, diving into the rich brown water, welcoming the flow against her skin, her hair riding the currents, replenishing body, heart, and mind. Her daughter’s hand was lost, too damaged to repair, too painful and potentially poisonous to leave as it was. With a grieving heart she had removed it, with Einar’s steady assistance. Cauterized and bound, the rest of the arm would now heal. While Magda tended it she must cope with her daughter’s furious grief. But Asa would live. A gift? Perhaps not. And so Magda sought release, racing through the waters, spinning, leaping, diving, one with her dragon.

‘Dame Magda?’

A jarring return to the bench, once more an old woman wrapped in layers of wool, hair bound. She had known Einar would be wakeful, but could not resist the swim.

‘I will leave in the morning,’ he said. ‘Unless you feel you need me–’

‘Thou art better off without Asa.’

He planned to stay in the city with Janet Fuller, assisting her and Brother Michaelo in seeing to the victims of the sickness. In the autumn he would leave on his quest. He had asked whether Magda would accept him as a student were he to be drawn back to her.

‘Magda and thee will talk more before thou dost depart.’

‘But will you?’

‘Magda has not rejected thee. Only advised thee to be certain.’

‘How old was Yrsa when you returned to your people?’

‘Five turns of the seasons.’

‘Then I may be away a long while. Will you–’

‘Be here? Alive? If not, thou wilt find another teacher. Perhaps thou wilt find them in another place.’

‘I cannot imagine.’

She smiled at that. ‘Thou art attempting to control rather than accept what comes. Be at peace. Thou hast a good heart. Thy way will be true.’

He bowed to her. ‘I don’t expect to sleep, and both of you need your rest. I will spend the night at Old Shep’s and leave from there.’

‘Take the bag Magda packed for thee.’ Powders and unguents for the sickness. She touched his cheek. ‘Courage. Trust thine own heart.’

When he left, she joined once more with the dragon, diving down into the silken depths, warmed by the fire within.

It was a hideous vision of Alan with burning eyes melting his face, bat wings protruding from his back, thick thorny vines spilling from his mouth and hands, crawling with spiders and rats. In Asa’s characteristic way the vines crept insidiously over the page entwining animals and people, crushing or strangling them. Owen crumpled the paper in his hand. He had thought to show it to Magda. But it would be enough for him to describe it.

‘Asa drew that?’ Lucie asked, her voice sharp with horror.

‘Alan Rawcliff’s soul, I think. She’d kept it in her scrip. I imagine she had meant to show him.’

‘That and the poppet. She was taunting him.’

‘I will burn it.’

‘Yes, do. But not in the house. The brush pile in the garden. I will ring it with angelica.’

The smoke rose, curling into the soft summer sky. A sudden draft caught it, pulling it away.

‘God’s grace is upon us,’ Lucie whispered.

‘Amen,’ said Owen.

Clasping hands, they prayed a Hail Mary, ora pro nobis peccatoribus …

‘She never understood the purpose of her drawings,’ said Owen.

‘And now it is too late? She will lose all use of her hand?’

‘She has lost the hand itself, I think.’ He had dreamed it in the night, a terrible price.

He stayed in the garden to work on the trench, working up a healthy, healing sweat, letting his mind go quiet, this simple task his most ambitious goal for the morning. The early June sun was warm overhead when a familiar voice called to him.

Peter Ferriby stood beneath the linden. Leaned against it, wiping his forehead.

Tossing his spade aside, Owen went to him. ‘Are you ill?’

‘Old, that is what I am. A long ride, then the walk here, and my legs are ready to give out in protest. But I wanted to bring news.’

Owen was drawing him to the bench beneath the linden when Lucie hurried out from the workshop, her lovely face set in a determined smile. ‘Benedicite, Peter. I pray your family are well?’

‘Yes. They all love the country. Yours as well. I have brought news of all three.’

‘Come. Sit with us,’ said Owen. ‘I will fetch some ale. But first – our children are well, you say?’

‘God help me. These old bones,’ said Peter as he lowered himself to the bench with a wince. ‘Well? Bless me, yes. More than that, thriving. Gwen and Hugh are daring adventurers. You will have your hands full with that pair. A jester and a fine hawker, your son. She enjoys the hawks as well, and is a fine rider. Both my boys have declared their undying love for Gwen and spend their visits vying for her attention. Emma tumbles about all the day with your steward’s children, a riotous brood.’

Lucie took Owen’s hand, pressed it. ‘That is good news.’ Her voice husky with emotion. ‘I am grateful. Dine with us?’

‘Gladly. My nephew’s told me of his exploits in your service. I take it the burning of the bedding was the least of the happenings next door.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Owen. ‘It is quite the tale.’