The Riverwoman’s Dragon

4 Secrets

Owen woke to familiar street sounds. Rolling over, he discovered Lucie gone. Light slanted through the shutters. How late was it? His first morning waking in his own bed after a month away, and he had much to do. He intended to call on Mayor Graa before being summoned, preferring to be the instigator of an investigation rather than have it assigned him, particularly when dealing with an official whose sympathies were rarely with the common folk. On the landing, habit took him into the nursery. With eye closed he imagined his little ones here, their bodies warm with sleep, their familiar scents, giggles, whispers, shrieks. How he missed them. He was grateful they were away, safe – he prayed he was right about that.

Descending to the hall, he paused at the garden window gazing out on a soft dawn rain. Not so late. Yet as the kitchen door opened he heard low voices, then Lucie approaching. She wrapped her arms round him, resting her head against his back.

‘A long day ahead for both of us,’ she said.

‘You will be in the shop?’

‘Yes. Jasper will not have Alisoun to help.’

‘You are glad to return to your work?’

She kissed his neck. ‘Yes and no.’

He turned to hold her close and kiss her mouth, her cheeks. Laughing, she pushed away.

‘We have guests.’

‘I heard voices.’

‘George, Alfred, Brother Michaelo.’

‘Quite a company. Any news?’

‘The missing child was found, frightened, but unharmed, and returned to his aunt, God be thanked. But Lettice Brown has not been seen. Michaelo will tell you more of that.’

Assignments agreed upon, Owen set off for Thomas Graa’s home, Brother Michaelo accompanying him as his scribe and his extra eyes and ears. Owen had come to appreciate the monk’s powers of perception and his knowledge of the wealthy and the powerful in the city and shire. On the way Owen asked whether Archdeacon Jehannes had said anything of a letter written by Archbishop Neville.

‘Which would mean his secretary, my cousin Leufrid.’ Michaelo sniffed. ‘Unholy beggar.’ Hard feelings from an old wound. When Michaelo had first come to England from Normandy a large sum of money had been entrusted to Dom Leufrid, with which he was to buy his cousin a place in an influential abbey. Instead, Leufrid had pocketed the money though he claimed he’d spent it in gaining Michaelo’s entry into St Mary’s, York. ‘Without ever having met Dame Magda he accepted the word of an anonymous letter writer complaining of her sorcery in the city, expressing his fear that God would look away when the pestilence arrived in York.’

So Carn had been right, the archbishop had sent such a letter. ‘Did Dom Jehannes have any thoughts as to the letter writer?’

‘He says he does not. But there is the matter of a letter he wrote to the Bishop of Lincoln while we were at court asking what he knew of Bernard the leech.’

‘The occasion of that inquiry?’

‘Whispers of just such accusations regarding Dame Magda and then her daughter, Dame Asa, originating from the man, though apparently he denies it. And no, Dom Jehannes did not speak with him. So he was curious. But he’s not heard from Bishop Bokyngham.’

‘What was the essence of Neville’s missive?’

‘He merely quoted gossip and warned against women who weave charms and spells while calling themselves midwives.’ Michaelo bobbed his head as they passed several friars haggling with a merchant.

‘No specific orders?’

‘No. Just spreading rumors.’

‘Jehannes’s reaction?’

‘He doubted the authenticity. He has written to His Grace, enclosing a copy of the letter and sent it by a messenger who is to deliver it directly to Archbishop Neville and no other, particularly not Leufrid.’ A little smile. ‘I wrote it out for him in a fair hand.’

Owen grinned. ‘Well done. Were there any specifics cited?’

‘As is his wont he added a positive suggestion, urging the revival of barefoot processions in the parish churches on Wednesday mornings.’

To Owen’s mind the processions would fan the flames of fear, but he could see the benefit in the comfort such expressions of penance might bring and said nothing.

‘I will bring you a copy of the letter when I write up today’s report, Captain. Suffice to say none of it is believable.’ Although Michaelo had not always approved of Dame Magda, he held her in high regard ever since the late Archbishop Thoresby had insisted on her being the healer by his side in his final illness. She had given the archbishop much comfort and ease in his last days.

They continued in companionable silence, Owen noticing the temper of the city, what seemed as usual, what suggested a fearful undercurrent. Michaelo’s short cape with hood protected him from the gentle rain and shrouded his face, but Owen could see that his eyes also followed passersby with quiet interest.

‘I had forgotten about the grave in your garden,’ Michaelo said, quietly. ‘I came upon Dame Lucie kneeling beside it this morning. Thinking she was tending a flower bed I approached, but she was weeping. I regret disturbing her.’

Owen took a breath before he spoke. The grave of her first husband and their child. Thoresby had granted her permission to bury Nicholas Wilton in the garden that had been his masterwork. Indeed, he had arranged for the ground to be consecrated. Before his death he had instructed Jehannes to move the tiny coffin of her firstborn, Martin, there as well, a gift Owen had feared would be more curse than blessing. ‘Martin was an infant when the pestilence took him. He has been in her thoughts of late.’

Michaelo crossed himself. ‘I will light a candle this evening.’

‘Bless you.’ Owen said no more, overcome by the image of his beloved kneeling in the soft rain tending the grave. He remembered her fear when their children burned with fever in late autumn, a depth to it that he prayed he did not come to understand, his own terror being overwhelming. The fear he’d experienced in battle was nothing compared to that he had felt for his children. Moving out of the way of a cart brought him back to the present.

Not far beyond the crossing for Ouse Bridge with all its bustle and business the city seemed to fall away as Castlegate opened into beautiful gardens. Thomas Graa had carved out a city manor near his warehouse at King’s Staithe, the house surrounded by gardens of graceful trees, well-kept flower and herb beds, and meandering walkways that continued across Castlegate, tumbling down to the bank of the Foss.

‘Beware a mayor who so flaunts his wealth,’ Michaelo said. A peculiar remark for one who wore finely tailored robes except when ministering to the poor.

A servant answered the door, bowing them in, inviting them to wait in the screens passage. Family activity could be heard in the hall beyond, a child demanding that his parents clout a servant who denied him a second helping, a woman trying to reason with him in a tight voice. Michaelo muttered something that Owen did not strain to hear, for someone approached, calling out for wine in his parlor. Three cups. The servant returned from round the carved wooden screens to lead them into the hall, directing them down the side, well away from the family gathered near the hearth – children, two young women, an older woman, several hounds lounging about their feet.

Another wall of wooden screens, solid, so as to afford some privacy, enclosed Thomas Graa’s parlor, a room with a large table and several high-backed chairs, a shelf behind the most cushioned chair holding rolls of documents and piles of tally sticks. Graa arrived as Michaelo set his wax tablet and stylus on the table. He was a compact man, though tending toward portly in the midsection, with bushy light brown hair surrounding a bald spot, nails trimmed, hands pink and soft. When he moved, he gave off a scent of rosewater.

‘A scribe? Is that necessary?’ Though irked, he spoke in his usual soft, melodious voice.

‘Knowing I can trust Brother Michaelo to record what he hears, I can devote all my attention to you,’ Owen said, matching the calm, friendly tone.

The mayor gave him a nod, his expression shifting between satisfaction and uncertainty. After the courtesies, in which Graa asked after the prince’s health and expressed his relief that Owen had not lingered at the royal court, he spoke of the damage to his warehouse the previous evening and asked whether the fire-starters had been apprehended. He did not ask about casualties, neither did he express concern about those who had lost their homes and their few possessions.

‘You have heard that Lettice Brown is missing?’ Owen asked. ‘That hers and several other homes were destroyed?’

A raised brow. ‘I had not heard about the woman. Should I know her?’

‘Her home is next to your warehouse.’

The mayor frowned. ‘The laundress with the drunken lout for a husband?’

‘A fair description.’

‘Poor woman. I warned her husband when he built that shed they call – called a home that he was trespassing on my property with a building unsafe for habitat.’ Gesturing as if to say what can you expect he went on to complain about the entire street of unsafe dwellings. ‘They were warned. Now they will demand recompense. But she is a good woman. We have used her on occasion, after large events when there is much to launder. Quick and efficient. I pray you find her.’

Owen asked whether he or the council had any leads on the death of Sam Toller, Wolcott’s factor.

Graa frowned. ‘Toller? Oh, yes. I have heard various rumors, but I am quite certain the man simply drowned.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘It happens all the time, Archer. You’ve lived on the river long enough to know that. And who would wish to kill the factor of a dying man? We are Christians in York.’

Michaelo cleared his throat. Owen asked if he might hear the rumors.

‘Some said his wife argued with many of the tradesmen and folk at the market. But would they not then go after her rather than her husband? Common gossip, not worth considering. And there are those who believe the Riverwoman disposed of him, some nonsense about his confronting her with proof that she has been slowly poisoning his employer. But my wife and many of the wives of the council members assure me that is slander.’ A sigh. ‘Though I must say, many worry that the Riverwoman is bringing a curse on the city. Edwin Cooper the loudest of them. Doesn’t his son serve the bailiffs?’

Ignoring the question, Owen said, ‘I understand Cooper complained that his wife had bad dreams.’

‘Yes. And that during the Riverwoman’s ministrations his wife talked in her sleep as if bewitched.’

‘It wasn’t Dame Magda who attended her, but her daughter.’

‘Ah. Perhaps he did mention that.’

‘Did his wife spout the devil’s words in her sleep?’

‘I’ve heard only that she suddenly talked in her sleep.’

‘Has your wife never complained of you talking in your sleep? A man with so many responsibilities? In truth, I do recall your story of how–’ Owen grinned. ‘Forgive me, but it was a good tale about the goat.’

Graa reddened. ‘That was different. But you make a point. Though he did say she had not done so before taking the Riverwoman’s potions.’

Asa’s, but pointless to correct him. ‘Any other complaints?’

‘Something about a poppet found in his wife’s bed after she had been taken to the nuns. You know the sort of charm, dressed to look like the person.’

Alisoun’s mandrake root? ‘I do not suppose you saw it?’

‘I did not speak with him directly. A fellow merchant mentioned it. I would have you look into it, Captain. See if there is anything to these various complaints.’

‘Who was this merchant?’

He shifted on his chair. ‘I cannot recall. I did not think it of any import.’

Yet he’d mentioned it now. Owen held his tongue, reminding himself that he would do best not to antagonize the mayor. ‘Are there others complaining about Dame Asa’s or Dame Magda’s practices?’

‘Asa is the daughter?’ Owen nodded. ‘You know how the women are. One begins her complaint and others must outdo her with their own wild tales of spells and charms, folk becoming far more ill than they were before her ministrations, taking up strange activities, women becoming too bold, men weakening.’ Graa cleared his throat. ‘But it’s their souls about which they are most distressed. As if they were not already damned as gossips. Look into it, would you? We pay you for such protection, eh?’

Brother Michaelo and Owen went their own ways at the end of Castlegate, the monk heading back to the minster close, Owen turning toward Edwin Cooper’s beyond St Crux.

The laborers at the cooperage pointed the way to their master, but warned that he was in a foul mood. Owen stepped into the workroom, his boots sinking into the thick carpet of sawdust on the floor, the light dim. He followed the sound of hammering and cursing to a workbench lit by an east-facing window where Edwin was pounding out bent nails. Over time Owen had heard many a tale of the man’s simmering anger at the world from his son Ned, but he had never had cause to observe it. He was debating whether it was best to leave and try another day when the man glanced toward the door, peered as if to be sure of Owen’s presence, then threw down the hammer with a muttered curse.

‘You know how to sneak up on a man, Captain Archer.’ Pulling off his work gloves he turned and leaned back against the counter, beefy arms folded across his thick middle, eyes hostile. ‘Been expecting you. Come to berate me for harsh words with the daughter of your friend the Riverwoman, I warrant.’

‘I am here at the request of Mayor Graa. I wish only to speak with you about your troubles concerning her.’

‘The mayor?’ He straightened, dropped his arms. ‘Well then, you might want to sit over here.’ With wary glances, the cooper led Owen to a table on which sat a jug and a stack of small wooden bowls.

Once they were settled, bowls of ale before them, Owen told the man that all he needed were details of what his wife suffered under Dame Asa’s care.

‘I knew something was amiss when the wife kept talking in her sleep as if awake, fretting about the children – on several nights the ones who died young, and claiming that I – nonsense, all of it nonsense, but fearful speech, excited and stumbling about her words as never before. And then she was all over bruised and bitten as if devils were pinching and biting her, cutting her. And I thought that was the cause of all that nighttime chatter, you see.’

‘Did Dame Celia complain of being hit and bitten? Did the servants speak of it?’

‘Nay, but we’re good Christians all in our house. Nothing like this has ever happened here.’

‘I understand Bernard the leech bled your wife for a time. He would have applied leeches and possibly small cuts to assist the bleeding,’ Owen said. ‘That would leave such marks.’

A grunt. ‘I suppose he did. But that was long before that woman trespassed. Infernal hag, claiming to heal Celia when all along she was stealing her soul.’

‘Why would she do that, do you think? Her mother Dame Magda was midwife to all your children, and you benefitted from her care not so long ago. What would cause her to turn against your wife?’

Edwin gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You think to twist my thoughts.’ He poured himself another bowl, but offered none to Owen.

‘Not at all. I am trying to understand.’

‘I’ve not yet told you the worst of it, the doll the maidservant found at the foot of my wife’s bed when helping her pack up for the priory. Celia refused to believe the Riverwoman’s daughter would put it there. Said the Riverwoman would never use such a thing. Who, then? She would not hear of blaming any of the servants. So who?’

‘Might I see it?’ Owen asked.

‘I burnt it straight away, cursed thing. I’ll not have such devil work in my home.’

Owen coaxed a description, but it was so vague as to be useless.

‘And then of a sudden my wife begs to go to the priory.’

‘I understand that was Dame Magda’s suggestion.’

‘You see? Crafty hag. She slipped in while I was about my business of a morning. It was Master Bernard came to me about it.’

Spying on the household? It seemed to Owen a curious undertaking for a leech.

‘Who recommended Bernard to you?’

‘Well now, it was Gavin Wolcott. He said he’d heard much good about him, and his father Guthlac liked him.’

‘Do you know how Gavin made his acquaintance?’

‘Master Bernard’s? Out of town, I think. Wolcott’s party told him of old Masterton’s death, that there was need for another physician in York. Saurian is getting old. Oft refuses to come out after dark.’

‘So Bernard was seeking work?’

‘I see what you’re doing. You want to push the blame on him. Well, the Riverwoman is your friend and I understand you must do what you can to protect her. And her spawn. But you’re captain of the city now, and you’ve a duty to us. You will find plenty folk with tales of her misdeeds. And in such times, with God testing us so sorely as might come to pass this summer, you must do your duty.’

‘Whose misdeeds – Dame Magda’s or her daughter’s?’

‘Matters not a whit. Both are witches.’

Arrogant little man. Owen controlled himself, forcing a blank face and a submissive nod. ‘Which is why I am here. If I might speak with your daughters and the servants–’

The man shook his head. ‘I’ll not have you upsetting them with your twisty questioning. I’ve told you all that we will say on the matter. I don’t thank you for pulling my Ned away from his work here in the yard to chase round after you and your mate Hempe. He’d never have helped the Riverwoman sneak into my home had you not filled his head with ideas.’

‘The Riverwoman’s daughter, you mean. Do you know that Ned sneaked her into your home?’

‘It was not my wife or my daughters. They are Christian women.’

Rising, Owen left with a mere nod of courtesy.

From Cooper’s house Owen headed to the King’s Staithe, where he found George Hempe talking to the laborers unloading a merchant ship.

‘Any witnesses to the start of the fire?’

‘No. Late in the day, no ship arriving at that time, the staithe was quiet, it seems.’ Hempe nodded at Owen’s expression. ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking. Well planned. And you? Learned anything?’

‘Little. You’ve spoken with the warehouse workers and the neighbors?’

‘I went round with your man Alfred. He puts folk at ease. No one noticed anything out of joint that day.’

‘Then it’s time I talked to Sam’s widow about the witnesses, watch her reaction. Was it you who spoke with her?’

‘Poole. As coroner for Galtres, where Sam was found. I warn you, Gemma Toller is a shrew.’

Owen found Sam’s widow working in a small kitchen garden behind her home, jabbing at the weeds as if thinking that would convince them not to re-seed. Dressed in a gown of faded blue, worn and patched, she was a handsome woman despite the hostile eyes and pursed lips. Bitter about her husband’s attentions to Beatrice Wolcott, the woman did prove coarse in her accusations, but even more so in pointing the finger at Magda as the murderer. Yet as she spewed her venom Owen was distracted by how she spoke, the hesitations and repeated phrases, slightly corrected, as if she were misremembering something she had learned by rote. She did have a helpful, hopeful piece of news – Lettice Brown was away at her daughter’s home outside the gates for her first lying in. By the time he left the house he was convinced that only her resentment toward Beatrice Wolcott and her fear of what would become of her and her children were real. Nothing in her claim that Sam accused Magda Digby of poisoning Guthlac Wolcott and that he was pushed into the river from Magda’s rock was true. Nor did she believe it.

The witnesses were quite clear about seeing Sam return that night, their stories matching, though one had seen more than the other, believing she had glimpsed someone, she thought perhaps two men, shadowing Sam as he strode angrily toward the staithe muttering curses. They now disagreed on the exact words Gemma had shouted after Sam, as well as his retorts, but both assured him that the man showed no signs of impairment as he stormed off, tossing back as many curses as Gemma showered on him.

And yet Gemma swore he had not returned that night. Why? Was someone silencing her, or did she have her own secrets?

At midday, Owen, Alfred, Crispin Poole, and George Hempe congregated in the York Tavern to share what they had discovered. Precious little, for all their digging. Though Alfred’s conversation with one of the folk helping clear the debris from around the mayor’s warehouse might be of use. From a family of charcoal-burners, he brought a childhood of closely observed burnings to his view of the fire.

‘Began at the corner of the Browns’ house closest to the warehouse so he thinks it might have served a double purpose, burning both the house and that part of the warehouse. And he’s quite certain it was set. “Who builds a fire in a corner of the house so far from the fire circle?” That’s what he said.’

‘What was kept in that corner of the warehouse?’ Owen asked.

The man had not known. Hempe offered to speak to some of the warehousemen. But Owen preferred to do that himself as he’d already spoken to Graa.

Crispin Poole cleared his throat. He had been quiet up till now. ‘I keep an ear pricked for news of the forest, being coroner,’ he said. ‘It’s rumored that Dame Magda has guests. Her daughter Asa and a young man who seems to be living somewhere just upriver from her home, on the north bank. Do you know of them?’

‘Alisoun mentioned something of it. I’ve yet to speak with Dame Magda. I thought to call on her later today.’

‘I would appreciate to hear what you learn,’ said Poole. ‘As I said, the young man is said to be living upstream in the forest.’

‘You have complaints of him?’

‘Just wondered.’

‘I will find out.’

With a nod, they all parted to go about their business, to meet here on the morrow at the start of their day.

Beatrice Wolcott set aside a stand of embroidery as she rose to greet Owen in a sweetly melodic voice, directing a servant to pour wine. Small, plump, pale, with rosebud lips and large darkly lashed eyes, she was a comely woman, clothed fashionably, very like a noblewoman Owen encountered long ago at Kenilworth Palace. A disagreeable experience.

‘Captain Archer. Gavin told me to expect you.’

‘You are most kind. Might I offer my condolences for your losses.’ He saw that he confused her. ‘Your children, factor, and now your husband’s decline.’

She bowed her head, taking a deep breath. ‘You are kind to acknowledge it. It has been a difficult time. I pray you sit, have some wine with me.’ Through lowered lashes she appraised him as she resumed her seat. ‘How might I be of help?’

‘If I understand correctly, Dame Magda cared for you and your husband after the deaths of your young children. But of late his son Gavin sent her away. I am told that on the night of your factor’s death he had gone to accuse Dame Magda of sickening your husband.’

She gave an alarmed gasp. ‘Who told you that?’

‘His wife.’

‘Of course. That woman,’ she said through clenched teeth.

‘Is it true?’

‘No. But … Can I trust you to ensure no one in this household learns what we say?’

‘Of course.’

‘I sent him with money to beg Dame Magda to see Guthlac. I am so worried.’

A fresh twist. ‘Did she come?’

‘No. I waited, but neither Dame Magda nor Sam came, not that evening, nor the next morning.’ She looked away.

‘Might I ask why you sent him rather than one of your servants?’

A blush. ‘As you know so much you will have heard that Guthlac’s son forbade Dame Magda to interfere with Master Bernard’s treatment. Gavin styles himself the young master of the house at this time, so to ask them to go against his orders might be a fearful thing for them. I chose not to do so.’

‘Nor to go yourself.’

‘Go myself? Leave the city without escort?’

Owen took a sip of the wine and changed the line of questioning. ‘Was the dismissal of Dame Magda your husband’s wish?’

‘Yes. The illness made him fear for his soul, and he came to agree with Gavin that to admit a pagan into the house might be a danger.’

Gently put. ‘But you do not agree?’

‘I have little say in this, it seems. But no, and anyone who truly cares for Guthlac saw the folly in employing Master Bernard. As soon as he began to bleed Guthlac – within days I saw the change. Within a fortnight he could not rise from the bed himself.’ Tears started up, her bottom lip trembling.

‘How did Gavin meet Master Bernard?’

‘I know better than to ask him.’

‘Did you confer with your friends regarding this leech, so new to the city?’

A blush. ‘I am not on such intimate terms with anyone.’

‘Not even your neighbor, Emma Ferriby?’

‘She is too fine to speak with me.’

Owen grew impatient. No one could meet Emma Ferriby and think that. But he let it pass.

‘How did Sam Toller behave when you last saw him? Did he seem worried?’

‘Sam? May he rest in peace.’ She crossed herself. ‘He was worried about my husband, his decline.’

‘Nothing else?’

Biting the side of her mouth, she made a face as if begging patience. ‘He and Gavin were at odds. He felt my husband’s son presumed too much in making decisions about Guthlac’s business.’

‘Was he correct in objecting?’

‘It is not my place.’

‘So you did not discuss business with Sam.’

‘No. Oh, no.’

‘Yet you sent him on an errand.’

‘He is – was family, Captain. He oft dined with us. And he ensured that the household ran smoothly while Guthlac and I grieved our children. He was a kind man.’ A sudden intake of breath, a tear.

Shades of the noblewoman at Kenilworth. But surely this was genuine, if he could only overcome his prejudice. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But one more question. How did you learn of Sam’s death?’

‘Crispin Poole informed me, a message for my husband. Of course I had feared …’

Owen rose, thanked her, and asked if he might pay his respects to Guthlac. He’d noticed a servant leaving a room off the landing of the solar, exiting by a door to the outside stairs.

A hand to her throat as she rose. ‘But why?’

‘I need a clear picture of all that has been happening, and as your husband’s health is an unfortunate part of these events I hoped merely to see him, how he is.’

With a little sigh, she acquiesced, leading him out and up to the solar. With care to be quiet she opened the door the servant had used. It was a large bedchamber with a wide window, shuttered, a small brazier keeping the room uncomfortably warm. She stepped up to the bed, lifting the limp hand of a wizened old man. Owen worked to see the gruff Guthlac Wolcott in the form before him. The shrunken man’s eyes fluttered open, the eyes vacant, drool slipping from his mouth as he moved it ineffectively.

‘My love, Captain Archer is here to wish you well.’ She smiled up at Owen, the lamplight catching the tears in her eyes.

Owen stepped closer, murmuring a prayer for Guthlac’s swift recovery. Once back out on the steps, he thanked Beatrice and apologized for the necessity.

‘Gavin is living here now?’

‘He is. I am sorry if you wished to see him. He is away for the day.’

He thanked her again and departed.

Matthew Brown lay face down in the burnt remains of his home, the blood from three stab wounds to his back soaking into the ashes beneath him. He reeked of ale. Owen imagined him drinking the day away and then returning to see whether his home was truly gone, or whether the misfortune had been a drunken dream.

‘And I was dreading the pestilence,’ Hempe muttered as Alfred filled them in on how he was found.

‘God be thanked his wife – widow is away, or so says the widow Toller,’ said Owen.

‘A pair of widows now,’ said Alfred. ‘Who will break the news?’

‘Are we certain that she did not return?’ asked Hempe. ‘That we won’t find her dead as well?’

‘She would have come hurrying home at the news,’ said a woman standing in the street. ‘I fear they are right, we are punished for seeking the aid of a pagan healer.’

‘Who has said that?’ asked Owen.

The woman crossed herself and scurried off.

‘She cannot think that God stabbed one of his children in the back,’ said Hempe.

‘The question is, who did stab him?’ said Owen.

On his way home, Owen noticed that what had been an undercurrent of fear was now on the surface. Furtive glances, muted greetings, small groups huddled together whispering, children’s hands held tightly as parents hurried them along. His job would be the more difficult for it.

Lucie pressed Owen’s hands, looking deep into his eyes. ‘You could not foresee Matthew’s death. You’d no cause to expect it.’

She’d held his one-eyed gaze, steady in her conviction, as Owen ran through all that he knew of the fire – very little, and of Lettice and Matthew Brown – even less. As far as anyone knew they had no connection to either Sam or his wife, so no obvious connection to Sam’s murder. And it was still possible that Lettice Brown might be alive. He took a deep breath and allowed that Lucie was right. He wasted time blaming himself for Matthew’s murder. But he did now have two murders to solve. And Guthlac was dying – was that another? He told Lucie of the man’s condition.

‘Perhaps we might–’

She nodded. ‘Though it sounds as if we might be too late, I will call on them on the morrow, offer some tinctures that might strengthen him.’

Hoping for better news, Owen asked Lucie about her day in the shop.

‘Dame Marian came asking for anything I have found of help to the victims of pestilence and those attending them. One of the lay workers has the fever and boils and the infirmarian expects it will quickly spread to the community outside the walls where the lay workers live.’

So the Death had reached Clementhorpe just beyond the city walls. ‘God help us.’ Owen crossed himself. ‘Is Marian well?’

‘She is. Radiant with well-being and clearly at peace with herself and enjoying her place in the community. Seeing her now makes plain how weak she was in body and spirit when she came to us in winter.’ Dame Marian had been brought to their home for safekeeping after a months-long ordeal. She had been weak, confused, and despairing of being accepted back into the Benedictine order. But under the guidance of the precentrice she was now responsible for the music in the services at St Clement’s Priory throughout the day. Her angelic voice and musical talent had transformed masses at the priory. In a matter of months she had drawn folk from around the city to their small chapel.

‘Why is she running errands for the infirmarian?’

‘Because she bided with a plague sufferer the past summer without succumbing to the illness. She has offered her services in the infirmary should she be needed.’

‘I am sorry I missed her.’

‘As was she. She offers her support for Magda in any official inquiries. If she is needed, she will speak, write, whatever is most effective.’

A heartening bit of news. ‘Had the priory received the archbishop’s letter?’

‘Their chaplain did. It was shared in chapter. Dame Euphemia, Crispin’s mother, expressed outrage and most of the sisters followed, though in more subdued manner. There are a few who disapprove of consulting a pagan healer, but Marian excused them as generally lacking good sense.’

Brother Michaelo had not brought Owen a copy of the letter, nor his written record of the morning’s conversation with Mayor Graa. He hoped he would also include a copy of Jehannes’s letter. Perhaps on the morrow. Pestilence, the murders, a physician stirring up ill feelings against Magda, just when the people needed her. ‘It is an ill wind that blows,’ he muttered.

‘We knew the pestilence would come, my love.’ Lucie lifted his hand and kissed his palm. ‘Take heart. Each time it comes it takes fewer folk.’

‘Until the time when it strikes with as much force as the first time. Damnation. Why did we not stay at court? Move with Prince Edward to Berkhamsted Castle in the countryside? Eat sugared fruits and drink fine wine. Stroll through the gardens, sleep as late as we wished, make love all the day.’

Lucie reached over to stroke his cheek. ‘That would not have changed our fear for our children, and all whom we love.’

He caught her hand and rose to draw her into his arms, his comfort, his anchor, his advisor.

Magda stepped out of the airless shack, lifting her face to the soft rain as she considered where she might move the family within. The heavily pregnant woman’s children had summoned Magda at dawn, thinking that her moans were a sign the birth was imminent. Soon, but not yet. And there would be two babies suckling at her breasts, not one. Helen and her husband had exchanged frightened looks at the news. The flimsy shed, too easily set aflame to permit a fire within, would not do for the birth. Nor was it roomy enough for all the little lives dependent on its shelter. Unfortunate that Einar had taken Old Shep’s cottage. But there was another, a little farther upriver, near Graa’s forest property, not as well maintained, half the roof caved in, but a far sight better than where Helen now slept. There was yet another place, but they were not in need of that sort of sanctuary.

Approaching her home, Magda saw Owen Archer standing with the lads who watched her coracle. They stood straight and tall, proud of his notice. Bird-eye was their hero. If he was requesting their help, he would get it. By the time she joined them they were shaking their heads, pointing toward the river, gesturing as if describing someone crossing to the other bank.

‘They took your coracle, Dame Magda.’ A laceration on the lad’s cheek had bled onto his much-mended shirt.

‘Did one of them cut thee?’

‘No. Tried to chase them and fell on the rocks.’ Head lowered, ashamed.

‘Dirk was brave,’ the youngest of them piped up. ‘He rushed at the man shouting that your dragon would tear him apart for stealing your coracle.’

Bird-eye crouched down as if to look more closely at Dirk’s cheek. ‘I’d wager they sleep poorly tonight, eh?’ Leveling his one eye on the lad, he drew his gaze, managed to win a grin. ‘You showed great courage, Dirk.’ The lad would savor that for years to come. Rising, Owen looked round at the others. ‘I need one of you to find Bailiff Hempe, tell him what happened, and that I need a few men to search the south side of the river. If they find the coracle they should return it.’

Dirk offered, but Owen insisted Magda see to his wound first.

‘Fen will do it for thee,’ said Magda. The lad had a keen memory for detail.

The lad grinned.

‘Tell the gate keeper you are working for me,’ said Owen. ‘And I count on all of you to let me know at once if the coracle disappears again. I will tell the gate keeper that you are working for me.’

Five proud lads vowed he could count on them.

‘Come, Dirk. Magda will see to that,’ said Owen. He nodded to the others. Fen hurried off on his mission.

At the river’s edge Magda paused, sensing a presence on the far bank. Einar? Asa? She closed her eyes, reaching, reaching, but failed to grasp any clear image.

Before joining Magda in the hut Owen circled the rock, checking that her heavier boat was still hanging beneath the eaves. He stood for a while, taking a good look at the shore on either side, upriver and down. The lads said it was the young man and the older woman who walks with a cane. Owen did not need to guess who they were. They said Einar had come along the bank from the forest as he had done of late, scooping up the coracle to carry it with him to the rock. Asa had come out of the house dragging two fat packs. Einar had lifted them into the coracle loudly complaining about the weight of the packs, then helped her in. They had been low in the water as he rowed her across the river. On the far bank they moved into the underbrush, Einar carrying both packs on his shoulders and the coracle over his head. He was strong. But then he would be if he was good with the bow. Owen wondered whether Einar would come to St George’s Field the next day.

Crossing by a window he heard a lad, not Dirk, telling Magda how Dame Asa had ordered him to leave. A higher voice than Dirk’s. The lad said he’d taken Holda with him, fearing for her safety. Because of the stolen coracle he’d had to wait until the tide was out to return her.

‘She had milk and a bit of gruel at my house. Did I do right?’

Magda assured him he had.

When Owen stepped into the house he found a tow-headed urchin holding out his hand for the coin Magda held.

‘Canst thou return early in the morning? On thy Sabbath?’

An enthusiastic nod. ‘Ma says Sabbath is for those with full bellies, not the likes of us.’

The two lads left, the younger one clutching his coin, Dirk sporting a tidy bandage and clutching a small pot of salve. Owen watched them slog back to shore, ready to come to their aid if the water overwhelmed them. But, though wet, they made it to the bank unscathed.

‘The lad was caring for someone here?’ he asked, settling onto a stool near a dying fire. Magda nodded to a kitten in a basket lined with a bit of blanket. It could not be much more than a few weeks old. ‘She is a patient?’

‘Child feared the kitten would be drowned. Brought her to Magda for safekeeping.’

‘You will keep her?’

‘It is never a matter of choosing a kitten, but of being clear that one would welcome a willing companion. Time will reveal Holda’s decision.’

That Magda had already named her suggested she knew what the kitten would decide. A wise young being, to choose such a companion. ‘Shall I stir the fire?’

Magda nodded as she poured ales for both of them. When the fire began to snap she placed a small pot on a stone near it. ‘A patient’s fee.’

It smelled good. He would not keep her.

‘Thou art looking well after thy long journey, Bird-eye.’

‘The prince’s hospitality could not be faulted, and both the journey and the sojourn were the better for Lucie being at my side. Another time I would speak with you about it at length.’

‘Thou art ever welcome. Thy children are well at Freythorpe?’

‘They are. Eager to see Alisoun.’ He took a long drink, then set aside his bowl. ‘You’ve heard about the fire in the city? Lettice Brown’s house destroyed, and no sign of her, though it’s possible she is away caring for her daughter.’

‘Magda heard.’

‘Just a few hours ago we found her husband Matthew in the rubble. Murdered. Stabbed in the back. He had been alive this morning, drinking at a tavern until mid-afternoon.’

‘The house set fire one day, Matthew murdered the next.’ Magda looked troubled.

‘I do not believe it is chance,’ said Owen. ‘But why? Do you know the Browns well enough to help me in any way?’

‘Lettice’s daughter’s time was close. She may well be away. Matthew was a man disappointed by the challenge of life. Thou dost carry a heavy burden, Bird-eye. The folk look to thee for salvation. Wouldst thou speak of the other cares that weigh on thee?’

She listened without comment to Owen’s litany of problems, unless asked. About Beatrice Wolcott’s behavior she said, ‘A young woman who learned early that men treat her well if she is ornamental, keeps a household running well, and never questions or contradicts them.’ When he was finished, she said simply, ‘Caught up in the storm so soon. Yet the worst is ahead, the manqualm and the fear.’

‘The fear is here. And the pestilence is at the gates. It has come to Clementhorpe,’ he said. He told her of Dame Marian’s offer.

‘Magda is grateful. The time may come …’ She told Owen of the plague death near Easingwold.

‘Carn told me. So it surrounds us.’ Owen stared into the fire, wishing– He did not know what he wished. So much. ‘I find myself doubting that Matthew’s murder and the burning of his home arises from the fear.’

‘What, then?’

‘That’s the rub. Until Matthew’s murder I thought the fire had been meant to destroy Thomas Graa’s warehouse, or that part of it near the Browns’ home. But why then murder him?’

‘So many questions.’

‘Living so near, might whoever set the fire suspect Matthew witnessed something that would incriminate them? Or that Lettice knew something and might have told him?’

‘Why Lettice?’

‘A laundress knows much that happens in households.’

‘In which case she is in danger if yet alive,’ said Magda.

‘How did Sam behave the night he came to you?’

‘Ill at ease.’

Owen told her what Beatrice had said of his mission.

‘He said naught of that. He warned Magda not to enter the city. But the warning had not been his intention until he sat there with Magda.’

‘What changed?’

‘Magda does not know. He had money with him. Perhaps Dame Beatrice had sent him.’ Seeing Owen’s frustration, Magda touched his arm, waited until he looked her in the eye. ‘Thou hast been home but a day. Such inquiries take time. Thou hast burden enough without adding more weight with thine impatience.’

He was about to respond when she reached out and gently touched the patch over his blind eye. The needle pricks eased. She moved to touch his jaw beneath the beard, and he felt the muscle release. Withdrawing her hand, she breathed with him, slowly, deeply. Owen closed his eye and allowed some time to pass in companionable silence.

‘I saw Guthlac today,’ he finally said. ‘He is incapable of either discovering anything or expressing such an anger.’ He described what he’d seen.

‘Difficult to hear. It need not have been so.’

‘Had you seen any sign such a decline would come?’

‘The deaths of his young children weakened him, but he was gaining strength and had every cause to expect an active life for some years.’

‘Could the leech Bernard have purposefully weakened him to his present state?’

‘If thou hast a suspicion that he is a danger, or that someone has acted to harm Guthlac, it is thy charge to find the truth.’

Could she not, just this once, speculate? Owen struggled to hide his reaction, but she would sense it, of course she would. ‘I ask because you were caring for him.’

‘At the time of their bereavement Magda sat with them. But a fortnight past the harvest moon Beatrice felt there was no more need.’

‘You were not caring for them? Gavin did not send you away?’

‘No. Beatrice had been sending a servant to fetch the physicks, then one day she said she would no longer be doing so, her mistress thanked Magda and wished her well.’

Not the stuff of rumors. ‘You had not seen Guthlac since autumn?’

‘Magda saw him from time to time. He would hail her on the street.’

So he had been out and about. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘No more than a week before Magda heard the tale of her being sent away.’

‘And he was well then?’

‘Well enough to be out on an errand.’

They sat in silence for a while, Owen turning various possibilities over in his mind. When Magda suggested he needed his rest, he bestirred himself to ask about Einar and Asa.

‘I met him,’ he added.

‘So he said. Asa would darken his heart toward thee. The invitation to St George’s Field was clever, but perhaps not enough.’

‘I understand she would have Alisoun believe he is her son, but that is not so.’

‘Of little importance. Magda believes they share a common mission, pursuing someone in the city. Who it is, what they want with him, and why they arrived when they did – none of that is clear. It is puzzling that Asa would journey now, when it pains her to walk. She says she came for the healing, but her distress was not their purpose. At least not that distress.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A long time she has suffered, taking more and more willow bark for the pain until her blood pooled in her feet, blackening them. She knew to stop the bark, mix a potion to thicken the blood, lie with feet propped up, rest. But instead she continued, worsening her condition with a journey. Magda did not turn her daughter away, doing what Asa knew to do. Now Asa leaves before her blood has thickened. To pursue whoever it is in the city. Given her history, she intends to punish them for betraying her.’

‘About what?’

‘Magda does not know.’

‘And Einar?’

‘A mystery.’

‘You believe they mean trouble?’

‘Of some sort. Whether to Magda, to this man, both, Magda knows too little to guess.’

Owen muttered a curse. Magda pressed the middle of his forehead. ‘Look within, trust thyself.’

‘The prince summoned me because he believed I had the Sight. He wanted to know what lies ahead for him and for the realm.’

‘Thou hast a gift, a seeing, but it is a selfless tool for thy work. For healing the community. As Magda’s is for healing the body and spirit. Folk want it to be more. A power. Something to help them rise above.’ Again she pressed the middle of his forehead. ‘Thou hast gathered the questions. Now thy work is to follow where they lead.’

‘While keeping my one good eye on all in the city. And out here.’

‘Magda will see to Galtres. Thou hast more than enough work in the city.’

A shower of needle pricks, gentler than before, yet an alert. ‘Why do I feel as if you know more than you are saying?’

‘No doubt that is true, for thee as well. Asa and Einar puzzle Magda. She must shelter a mother about to birth twins. The manqualm creeps close.’ Hearing the weariness in her voice Owen regretted his irritation. ‘This is a dark time, Bird-eye. There is much work to do. Magda asks a favor of thee.’ Taking some coins from somewhere in her skirts she offered them to him. ‘Magda is caring for a family of five children, two about to be born, the father crippled. They need clothing. Good but modest cloth, so that they might make new clothes. And some to make clothes to sell.’

‘So that you need not come into the city. Of course. I will ask Lucie.’

‘Thou art a good friend, Bird-eye, doing this kindness despite thy frustration with Magda.’

She had noticed. Waving away his apology she stepped outside with him, walking to face the south bank. He joined her, curious as she stood still, studying the bank upriver and down in the fading light.

‘What is it?’

‘For a moment before returning to the rock Magda sensed someone over there. Almost it felt her calling to Magda.’

‘Asa?’

Magda shook her head. ‘Whoever it was, she is gone.’