The Cross Legged Knight (11 page)

Brother Michaelo had interrupted Thoresby’s morning prayer to tell him that Wykeham had a visitor, Godwin Fitzbaldric. It was no surprise that the man was distraught, but Thoresby wondered what he wanted of Wykeham, whether he was apologizing for the destruction of the house, or demanding new lodgings. Thoresby noticed the voices now, Wykeham’s calm, reassuring; Fitzbaldric’s loud, imploring. He did not like the sound of that. In a short while he learned that he had interpreted the voices correctly. Wykeham came to confer with him while his tenant waited in the hall.

‘Might I assure Fitzbaldric that there is room for all his household here in the palace?’ Wykeham concluded.

‘Your tenant is proving to be a great burden.’ Thoresby shook his head as Wykeham began to explain. ‘I am aware of your noble feelings in this. They are your tenants, you are responsible for their welfare, it is possible that the fire was an attack on you. Yes, yes. But why such haste in inviting them here? York is a great city, crowded, yes, but there is always a way to
find room. One of the archdeacons might have space for the Fitzbaldrics.’

Wykeham tapped his finger on the arm of his chair, impatient to get in a word. Thoresby found the sound annoying and gave way.

‘If they had anything to do with the fire, the murder, is it not wise to have them under this roof, where we might observe their comings and goings, their tempers?’

‘And be murdered in our beds, if they were the ones responsible for that woman’s death.’

Wykeham ignored the comment. ‘I am also concerned with Captain Archer’s inconstant behaviour in this,’ he said. ‘To offer shelter to the injured servant last night, only to throw him out on the street this morning.’

‘I shall speak with him about it. But it was never a good idea. His wife will be busy in the shop, Archer is busy with our concerns and the children must be frightened to see a crippled man in their kitchen. The household is just recovering from Mistress Wilton’s fall and the loss of the child she carried. All in all, I am glad to relieve them of the burden.’ Some of Thoresby’s vehemence came from guilt, a feeling that Lucie had taken Poins in to help Owen in his investigation.

‘You are very familiar with this captain of yours.’

‘I am godfather to his children.’

‘Indeed?’

Thoresby did not wish to pursue that subject. ‘My greatest concern is having the Riverwoman at the palace. She is not a Christian. It is disturbing.’

‘Then send for a physician.’

‘Master Saurian is a gossip. All the physicians and surgeons in the city are. Magda Digby is not. She suits our purpose.’

‘So we are agreed on this?’

‘God help us, yes. Tell Fitzbaldric they may come.’

Owen returned to his chamber to dress more carefully, then tucked the belt and Cisotta’s girdle in his scrip and set off to find Eudo and the priest he hoped would be with him. Although a mist still dampened the air, beading on eyelashes, dripping from hats and veils, folk were astir on Davygate, some going about their business, many clustered with heads together, no doubt reliving the night’s drama. Stonegate, lined with the grand homes of goldsmiths and wealthy merchants, was abuzz with groups of neighbours exchanging gossip. Owen felt all eyes on him as he passed along the crowded street. In front of Mulberry Hall stood a cluster of some of the most important residents. They hailed him as he approached. After asking about Poins and expressing sympathy for him upon hearing of his injuries, they launched into the talk of the day, which was not only the fire but Cisotta’s death in it – because of Eudo’s early-morning visit to the Dales’ house all now knew the identity of the woman who lay in the shed on Petergate. Owen wished he had known that before sending Lucie off. People had many questions about what had prevented Cisotta from fleeing the fire. He did not know how Lucie would respond.

‘Trapped by someone meaning no good,’ said a merchant.

This was met with nods all round but for one woman, a goldsmith’s wife.

She shook her head as if listening to children stumbling over their lessons. ‘Death by fire is the Lord’s judgement.’ She stood back, her face stern, while the others digested this. When she thought them ready, she continued, ‘She wove charms, for good or ill.’

‘Midwives do what they must,’ said another woman.

‘For good or
ill
, I said. That is not the way with other midwives.’

The merchant frowned in disagreement. ‘Mark me, it is the serving man, lying in the captain’s kitchen burned and lacking a limb – he knows what happened to Goodwife Cisotta. They say he lay with his arm stretched towards her.’ He looked to Owen for confirmation.

‘I arrived after he had been pulled from the fire.’ And glad of it he was at the moment.

‘Has he spoken?’ a goldsmith asked.

‘Not a word.’

‘Some say it is the Duke of Lancaster wreaking vengeance on the Bishop of Winchester,’ the goldsmith said.

‘Do you mean the bishop’s hearing Queen Philippa’s deathbed confession that Lancaster was a changeling?’ one of the women asked.

‘No one who has ever seen the king and the duke together believes that,’ said Owen. ‘They are of the same mould.’

The woman sniffed.

Owen bade good-day to them all and continued up to Petergate and on towards the tawyer’s house, relieved to escape the curious townsfolk.

C
rossing the garden to the rear door of the shop, Lucie paused outside, picking spent roses off the climbing vine while praying for strength to fend off the darkness. She had committed to helping Owen in this, but already doubt clouded her mind.
Holy Mother of God, help me fight against the devil who would crush me with despair. Give me the strength to see how I must proceed, how I can bring peace to Cisotta’s spirit and protect innocent people from blame
.

Gathering a handful of dried petals in her apron, Lucie stepped inside. The workroom and storeroom for her apothecary shop had once been the kitchen and main living quarters of her home, with a sleeping loft above. A window overlooked the oldest part of the garden, which had been planned and planted by her first husband, Nicholas Wilton, adding to the small apothecary garden planted by his father and grandfather. Nicholas would have delighted in the space she had now, with room enough for half a dozen fruit trees and beds for more varieties of the herbs that they used
in the shop. Lucie’s own father had bought the larger house next door in which they now lived. She wondered whether he would have regretted his generosity if he had lived to see her now, giving in to despair over the death of a child she had never known.

These were dangerous thoughts. She busied herself collecting a small jar and stopper for Emma’s sleep potion and set out the sealing wax, lighting a spirit lamp to warm it. From a peg on the wall she took down a scrip in which to carry it all. As she worked, her hands steadied, her mind calmed.

Through the beaded door to the shop she overheard Jasper talking to a customer. ‘I have set it here at my elbow because there have been so many asking for balms for the throat. Do you need a salve for burns as well?’

One of the tasks that Lucie had neglected of late was making more of the cough electuary, which would be much needed as the year passed into winter. She doubted they had enough to last through the next few days if already, in mid-morning, Jasper had dispensed enough to be keeping the jar on the counter. She waited until the customer departed, then joined Jasper in the shop.

He greeted her with troubled eyes, cheeks flushed with emotion. ‘Is it true what they are saying, that it was Cisotta who died in the fire?’

The question took Lucie aback. ‘Who told you?’

‘Mistress Cooper. She came in for burn ointment for her husband and something to soothe his throat. And others have also been talking of it. Is it true?’ His voice cracked.

‘Yes, it is.’ Seeing his distress, remembering how Cisotta had affected him, Lucie held her arms out to him and had a moment to comfort him before the next
customer appeared in the doorway. ‘I shall miss her, too,’ she whispered, smoothing his straw-coloured hair from his forehead as she had not done in a while. He hugged her hard, wiped his eyes, and turned back to his work, greeting the customer with a gruff but stable voice.

While Jasper dispensed, Lucie mixed valerian root, fennel seed – for Emma had a tender stomach – crushed lemon balm and mint and, having tucked them in the jar, stoppered it.

‘We need sweet vinegar and barley sugar to make more of the throat physick,’ Jasper said as Lucie picked up the jar and headed for the workroom.

‘And before the day is out,’ she agreed. ‘But we have the rest?’

‘Steeped hock seeds and flowers, gum Arabic, dragagantum and quince seeds, aye.’

Something simpler might do for those not coughing, but the best remedies for the throat contained iris or violet vinegar and barley sugar. She had never allowed her supply of them to get so low.

‘I shall stop at the market after I take this to the Ferribys,’ she promised. No doubt the day after a fire the ingredients would be most dear, but she had no choice.

‘I could take that to them.’

‘I wish to see Emma. Do you mind so much, managing the shop by yourself?’

She could tell by the look on his face that he minded a little, but he assured her that he was content.

Quickly she sealed the jar and departed for Emma’s house, hoping to set her thoughts in order as she walked to Hosier Lane. But on the street she found little peace in which to think. It seemed as if the entire population of York was abroad, exchanging tales of the
fire the previous night. By the time she had made her way down Coney Street to Ousegate she had learned that the gossips, rather than talking of the good Cisotta had done, were listing her frivolous outfits, the men with whom she had flirted, the midwives she had stepped over to find work, how much she had charged for a birth when others did the work expecting nothing and, worst of all, the charms she had woven for profit.

By the time Lucie reached Emma’s house she felt confident that she could rummage for information without sounding unnatural – her fury over the wholesale condemnation of Cisotta would cover any tension she might display.

The Ferriby house commanded Hosier Lane just beyond Pavement. Peter Ferriby was a merchant trading in a wide assortment of profitable goods, as his father had done before him, and the L-shaped house rose two storeys, gaily painted in yellow and red, a narrow end to the street with a wing jutting out behind the warehouse that shared the street end. She ducked through an archway which led into a small courtyard between the house and the warehouse and took a moment to appreciate the peace after her walk. She knocked only once on the door before Emma opened it. Lucie realized she must have been visible from within. ‘I was enjoying your courtyard.’

‘You may not wish to come in,’ Emma said beneath her breath. ‘Mother is in a fury.’

That was not unusual for Lady Pagnell. ‘We are a pair, then,’ Lucie said. ‘But what is amiss? Is it her anger with the bishop? I thought they were about to come to a settlement.’

Emma winced. ‘I thought so, too. But it is anyone’s guess how long it will now be delayed. Peter heard this morning that some people are suggesting we are behind
the fire at the bishop’s house, that we did it in revenge for Wykeham’s part in Father’s death.’

‘Lady Pagnell heard this?’

‘Peter can be such a fool – he told me of this in her presence.’

‘Oh, Emma, surely no one believes it?’

‘Folk will believe what they like,’ Lady Pagnell said loudly from somewhere within the house – what keen hearing the woman had – ‘and the more who suffer for it the tastier it is. But you do not need to keep Mistress Wilton standing in the courtyard, Emma.’

Emma clutched her elbows with her stubby-fingered hands. ‘Mother is my bane,’ she said more quietly. ‘But enough of her. I can guess what you are angry about. Folk are talking of nothing else this morning. What on earth was Cisotta doing at the Fitzbaldric house?’

‘So far we do not know.’

‘Well, come in, do,’ Emma said in a louder voice, stepping back, her elegant green wool gown moving to show the pale-yellow undershift. ‘You must tell me all about last night and the injured servant you have taken in.’

Lucie glanced down at her simple workaday blue gown, hoping she had not stained it while assisting Magda with Poins, or working in the shop. There was a tear at the edge of her left sleeve that she had not noticed before, a small spot on the skirt that might be blood and her hem needed a good brushing. She and Emma were both daughters of knights, but Lucie did not fuss with her appearance on workdays.

Lady Pagnell stood beneath a window, leaning over a large piece of embroidery in a frame, stabbing at it as if taking out her anger on the cloth. Though short like her daughter, she managed to be an imposing presence in the high-ceilinged hall. She wore a dark-purple gown
with a matching veil over a white wimple and bib, a veil much crimped and curled and stiffened into an imposing square façade over her face. Murmuring something polite at Lucie’s greeting, she feigned absorption in her needlework, as if her earlier outburst had never occurred.