The Cross Legged Knight (36 page)

‘Poins fears he is dying, Thy Grace, and according to thy customs wishes to be shriven. By thee.’

‘Me?’

The white-haired crone nodded once. ‘He says he will have no other. Thou wert kind to him and he trusts thee.’

‘He wishes to be shriven now?’

She shook her head. It was a queer cap she wore, of so many colours they blurred when she moved. Her gown was the same. Perhaps that was what made him feel odd in her presence.

‘He sleeps now, but he will wake in an hour.’

‘How do you know when he will wake?’

‘Magda mixed his physick and she has watched him these few days, noting when he wakes.’

It might prove frustrating. Anything Poins told him in confession was useless to the investigation. But so be it. Thoresby might think of some way round it. ‘I shall be there.’

Magda bowed to him. ‘Thou hast a good heart.’

*

After her afternoon of air and exercise, and a draught of the modified tonic, Lucie slept for a few hours, waking when Phillippa came to ask whether she wished to take her meal with the family in the hall. Dropping her legs off the bed, Lucie found that her head felt clearer, and as she rose her balance was surer than it had been earlier in the day. ‘Yes, I’ll eat with the family tonight, Aunt.’

Lamps now lit the hall and the children had been put to bed.

Owen already sat alone at the table, staring into a cup of ale. When Lucie joined him, he put an arm round her and pulled her head close. ‘I have been thinking.’

‘I could see that.’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘Aye. Very well. Have you resolved anything?’

Owen sighed, withdrew his arm and, leaning his elbows on the table, set his head down in his hands. His fingers fanned through his curls, then clutched them. She knew the gesture as one of defeat.

‘What is it, my love?’

‘The strap, the documents – I have overlooked two of the most obvious suspects – Wykeham’s clerks.’

‘You told me you had spoken to them about that evening.’

‘Aye, but the truth is I know little about them. And if the strap round Cisotta’s neck had been securing the property documents from Wykeham, it’s possible one of them is guilty.’

‘Or Matthew the steward.’

‘Oh, aye, Emma would like to hang him, I know.’

‘You must question him, Owen.’

Kate interrupted them with trenchers and a good-sized fish, as well as a fragrant pottage.

The four at table were a subdued group. Jasper seemed weary, and both Owen and Lucie were quiet in fear that they would reveal too much too soon, so Phillippa entertained them with a monologue of laundry days at Freythorpe Hadden.

Afterwards Jasper disappeared into the kitchen.

Lucie smoothed Owen’s hair. ‘Will you speak with Matthew?’

‘Aye, but I must also speak with Wykeham about his men, and the sooner done the better.’ He reached for his boots.

‘You’re going to the palace now?’

‘I am. I must ready the men for tomorrow.’

When she looked confused he told her of Wykeham’s demands.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ Lucie asked. ‘Do you think he has cause to fear?’

‘God’s blood, I wish I knew. Nothing we have learned suggests that he has anything to fear. But one man working for Lancaster’s followers – that is all it would have taken.’

‘You dislike him more and more.’

‘Aye, he sours the air he breathes.’

‘Watch yourself. Remember you do all this for Cisotta.’

‘Aye. He cares nothing about her, but I do.’

‘God go with you, my love.’

‘And you. Now to bed with you. You are too pale.’

She watched him leave, then slowly climbed to their chamber.

T
horesby paused over the garb in which he would hear Poins’s confession. It was unlike him to expend such time on a trifle, yet he wanted neither to frighten the servant nor to disappoint him. Poins wished to confess to him – he did not know whether it was because he was archbishop, or because he was John Thoresby, the cleric who had been kind to him.

‘Your Grace?’ His page stood by the wardrobe chest holding up the houppelande that Thoresby had chosen earlier for dining.

‘Yes, yes.’ Thoresby motioned the page over with the gown. He would not look a beggar in any case.

Michaelo handed Thoresby a lavender-scented cloth as he passed through his private hall to the kitchen.

‘God bless you,’ Thoresby said. ‘I had forgotten how the man’s wounds stank.’

He caused a flutter in the kitchen.

‘Be at ease,’ Thoresby said, ‘I am but passing this way to visit the invalid.’ He caught a disapproving spark in his cook’s eyes.

Magda Digby stepped out from the screened area and bowed to him. ‘Poins is ready for thee.’

She sat down just outside the screens, a formidable guard. Thoresby wondered whether Michaelo was in place in the room above, but he did not dare look up for fear Poins would notice. The injured man was propped up on pillows. The bandage across his face was clean, as was all the visible flesh. His left hand lay outside the covers, pressed to his chest. He made a movement with his right shoulder, then closed his eyes for a moment.

‘I cannot make the sign of the cross,’ he whispered.

Thoresby felt the comment deep in his chest. Such a simple gift for which man never gives thanks until it is taken from him. ‘It matters not, my son. May the Lord bless you, and may His peace embrace you.’

‘Bless me, Father. I … do not know whether … I am guilty of the sin … of which they accuse me … with their eyes.’ So little speech, yet Poins lay back, fighting for breath.

Thoresby eased down on to a chair that had been placed to the left of the bed, where the infirm man might hear and be heard with ease. An infirmarian had once told him that the dying straddle two worlds, that of the spirit and that of the flesh, and that holding their hands or merely touching their arms often draws them more firmly back into this world. In Queen Philippa’s last illness she had often reached for Thoresby’s hand, seeming to find comfort in his touch. He touched Poins’s forearm.

The man seemed to straighten a little, his eyes focusing on Thoresby.

‘Father, I fear … I am dying. I cannot bear … the stench … of my own flesh. I… do not know myself.’ He paused for breath. ‘The Riverwoman said … I must
fight if … I wish to live –’ His breath trembled on the exhale.

Thoresby took his hand.

‘For what should I … live, Father? What work … might I do?’

Even the gestures of prayer were lost to him. He was unlettered, too scarred to seek a wife. Thoresby could say only, ‘Despair is a sin, my son. It is not for us to choose our passing. God will take you when it is your time.’

‘God.’ Poins almost spat the word. ‘My arm is gone … and still … He gives me pain. Have I not … suffered enough? Should I … fight to live … so I might … beg on the streets?’ Poins clutched Thoresby’s hand, and though his chest heaved with sobs, his eyes were fierce.

‘We cannot know God’s intentions,’ Thoresby said.

Poins groaned and lay back again on his pillows, closed his eyes and struggled for breath.

In the long silence, Thoresby jumped at a tell-tale creak up above and began murmuring prayers.

At last Poins said, ‘May must not be … blamed for the fire, Father … or for Cisotta’s death.’

‘Are you to blame, then?’

‘Bless me, Father … for I have sinned.’

Thoresby bowed his head and listened.

Alfred and those guards not on duty were sitting round a table in the barracks finishing their supper when Owen joined them. On his walk over he had sought a way to impress on the men the importance of defending Wykeham the following day, but it was difficult when he was not convinced of the danger. Lancaster’s hatred of Wykeham was the key. Yet since the fire, all had been quiet.

Owen need not have worried – the eyes that looked
up from the ale cups were all grave with the knowledge that tomorrow they might face a powerful enemy.

‘Captain.’ Alfred came forward. ‘I am right glad you are here. The men have questions, and some suggestions for the morrow.’

This part did not require Owen’s conviction, only his experience. He leaned against one of the aisle pillars and set his mind to strategy.

Thoresby had stepped back to bless and absolve Poins.

With his one good hand, Poins pulled up the edge of the blanket and mopped the sweat dripping into his left eye. The bandage across his forehead was soaked. The stench was enough for Thoresby at last to lift the scented cloth to his nose, inhaling shallowly so as to receive only the perfume, not the odour that permeated the room.

‘For your penance, my son, you must repeat all that you have told me to Captain Archer.’

‘I am tired, Father.’

‘I cannot divulge what you have told me in confession. If you wish to clear the maid’s name you must tell your story openly.’

Poins closed his eyes. ‘I’ll sleep now.’

Thoresby was exhausted. He wanted wine, fresh air. ‘You must tell Captain Archer.’

Poins’s head sank to the right, his breathing deepened.

Sleep. It was the only pleasure left to the man.

Magda Digby rose as Thoresby came out from behind the screens.

‘Does he yet live, Thy Grace?’

‘Yes, though for how long only God can say.’

‘He grows weary of the struggle. Magda can only do so much.’

She glanced over to the doorway into the hall, where May stood with her head strained forward, her eyelids fluttering. Weighed down by Poins’s despair, Thoresby sought the evening garden.

‘Your Grace.’

May had come to him. She stood with head bowed.

‘He wants your name cleared of all blame,’ he told her before she asked.

She lifted her face to his, her chin trembling. ‘Then he has confessed?’

‘He has made his confession and that is all I may tell you. To be absolved he must tell Captain Archer all he has told me.’

‘My Lord Archbishop cannot absolve him otherwise?’

‘I will not. And you should tell Archer of your actions that night.’

‘I have, Your Grace.’

What? What else is Archer holding back?

‘Your Grace?’

‘Then you have cleared yourself.’

‘I am partly to blame. I called Cisotta to the house, Your Grace,’ May whispered.

‘Did you?’
And so did Poins
. Thoresby sighed. ‘Who tells the truth here?’ He shook his head and crossed the kitchen, waving a quick blessing as he passed Maeve and her assistant. He glanced back once as he reached the door, saw May step through the screens and Magda emerge, returning to the bench on which she had awaited him.

Who is lying
, Thoresby wondered as he breathed in the night air. It revived him, perhaps too well. The desire to hear what Poins and May said to one another suddenly seized Thoresby like a fist in his gut. He wanted access to the room above that part of the
kitchen. But he was a stranger in his own palace. With little cause to spend time in the kitchen wing, he did not know where the steps that led upstairs might be. He crossed back through the kitchen and opened the one door in the passageway to the hall. It was the buttery. It must be outside, then. He strode back through the kitchen, not bothering to acknowledge anyone, and almost collided with Michaelo in the garden.

‘Your Grace.’

‘Take me to your listening place. The maid is with Poins and I will hear what they say.’

Lucie started awake as Kate crept into her chamber, the lamp she carried lighting the room.

It was not Kate’s custom to enter without knocking. ‘What is amiss?’ Lucie winced as she put pressure on her injured hand and rolled to the other side to raise herself up. As Kate approached, Lucie smelled the laundry lye on her clothes.

‘There is a man to see you,’ Kate whispered. ‘Edgar of Skipton, he says, sent by Mistress Ferriby. He begs you to see him.’

‘Is it very late?’

‘I was still tidying the kitchen, Mistress. And Jasper has not yet retired.’

Lucie wondered why Emma had sent the tutor here tonight when she would be at the house in the afternoon. Perhaps Emma doubted Lucie would follow through with her plan.

By now Lucie was fully awake. ‘Help me dress. I cannot manage by myself with this bandage.’

Jasper stood outside the door when they emerged. He peered over Lucie’s shoulder into the chamber beyond. ‘The Captain has not returned?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Are you armed?’

‘Jasper, our visitor is only Edgar, the Ferribys’ tutor.’

‘Why should you trust someone who comes in the evening, unexpected?’

‘Because I asked Emma to speak with him about her mother’s steward Matthew.’