The Guilt of Innocents (6 page)

‘Dame Lucie, what a blessing that you’ve come.’ He drew up a stool for her at the work table.

‘Are you in need of my advice?’ she asked as she took a seat.

‘I am. I’m mixing a headache powder for the Master of St Leonard’s, but I’ve just noticed that there are three different mixtures for him.’

Sir Richard de Ravenser, the archbishop’s nephew, suffered from a variety of head complaints, varying in intensity. ‘How did his servant describe his condition?’

Edric made a face. ‘It was not his servant.’

‘His clerk Douglas?’

Edric nodded. ‘He’s threatened to return before I close up.’

Lucie thought it was the first sarcasm she’d heard from her new apprentice.

‘Douglas is an unpleasant man in the best of times,’ she said, ‘but when Sir Richard is ailing he’s desperate and so even worse than usual. How did he describe his master’s condition?’

‘Sir Richard is blinking against the light and wants nothing to eat,’ said Edric.

Lucie nodded. ‘Poor Sir Richard, that is his worst. Make him the third one, with the sleeping draught. I’d forgotten he’s been away, to court. I’m not surprised he used all he had and needs more. Double the recipe.’

She reached for a jar of sufficient size and felt Edric step close, his hands ready to catch her by her swollen waist if she stumbled. She was flustered by the scent of him, the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Perhaps he was merely concerned
for a mother-to-be, not wooing her; in fact, that is surely what it must be. He had no doubt heard that she’d lost her last child in a fall. Turning round and handing him the jar, she said, ‘You are kind, Edric, but you must not fuss over me. After all, I am your master.’ She said it with a smile.

He blushed and moved aside. ‘I meant no disrespect, Mistress.’

‘I doubt you did, Edric.’ Perhaps she needn’t have said anything, but if it had flustered her what might he have felt. He must learn propriety. ‘Do not make Douglas wait,’ she reminded him, then moved on into the shop to assist Jasper.

She was glad to find him intent on listening to a customer’s lamentations regarding his bowels. Not that the subject was pleasant, but Jasper seemed himself, as if he’d already shrugged off the event on the river.

Later, back by the fire in the hall, Lucie remembered her apprentice’s gesture and wondered whether he understood the difference between feeling protective of a woman and feeling attracted to her. He was so young, so earnest – so charming. She knew that it was just such a complication that worried some of the guild members about her being a master apothecary, with male apprentices. Most likely because Jasper was her adopted son, he’d never seemed confused about his relationship with her. But Edric – she was unsure how to know whether she was reading too much into his behaviour or not enough. After all, Bess had noted it.
That worried Lucie. But she need not fear that Owen would notice. She wished he were less protective of her and more flirtatious and affectionate. She felt huge and unlovely. A passionate kiss would go a long way towards brightening her spirit.

T
he near drowning and a priest and schoolmaster suspected by the gossips of attempted murder brought many to the York Tavern that evening. Bess’s husband Tom growled about her long absence when she returned from Lucie’s house.

‘You’d be more than a little angry if I’d disappeared just as half the city arrived thirsty and cranky with frostbitten fingers and toes,’ he grumbled.

She hugged him, and as she stepped back noted his bemused expression. A hug was the last thing he’d expected from her. She was suddenly poignantly aware of his sagging jowls and swollen eyelids and thanked God he came from a long-lived family.

‘The fire’s smoking,’ she said. ‘See to that while I fill tankards.’

He nodded and pushed a pitcher towards her. ‘It’s plain I’ll be brewing again this week.’

Bess noticed a pair she knew to be abbey bargemen in the corner and made her way towards them in the hope they might be in a mood to talk. Heads bowed, they seemed like two monks in church this evening, quiet and solemn-faced.

‘Have you news of the pilot?’ she asked as she stood over them unnoticed, another clue to their mood.

Bart shook his shaggy head, and as he raised his tankard for a refill he surprised Bess with such a grief-stricken look that she almost spilled some of Tom’s best ale.

‘You are good friends with the man who almost drowned?’

‘My wife and I are godparents of his lasses,’ he said. ‘I was the one to tell his good wife of the accident. I had to repeat it because she just couldn’t believe what I was saying, and then she screamed and frightened the little ones. I pray he recovers. I’ve got a knot in my belly that all the ale in York won’t loosen.’ He took a long drink.

It wouldn’t be for lack of trying, Bess thought as she made sympathetic noises.

‘Had he been but a little later returning today it wouldn’t have happened,’ said the other.

‘Aye.’ Bart nodded. ‘Hal’s right. He came just before those cursed scholars. Pampered pets.’

Hal winced at his friend’s words. ‘I don’t think
we can really blame them,’ he said. ‘Drogo didn’t look right when he walked up to me. He was rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t see clear. I think there was blood on his hands. He asked me for some water. By the time I fetched it, he was in the river.’ He crossed himself.

‘Blood on his hands?’ Bess thought that significant. ‘But you aren’t certain?’

Hal held up his own hands. ‘We can never get off all the pitch or the river filth.’

It looked as if all the creases on his hands were picked out in black, as well as the greater part of the joints. ‘I see,’ said Bess.

‘Those scholars are still the ones pushed him in,’ Bart growled.

‘We don’t know that,’ Hal maintained. ‘If Drogo was sickening, a nudge might have sent him in, the barges were rocking so with all the folk moving about. I’m not easy blaming the lads.’

Bart grunted.

‘What if someone in the city is after bargemen, and not just Drogo?’ Hal added, frowning down at his tankard, then up at Bart.

‘Why would that be?’ Bess asked.

Hal shrugged. ‘Why Drogo?’

Bart snorted. ‘That’s what makes it plain the
scholars
did it. They’re angry about his keeping the scrip. He was a fool to do that. Why would he think the lad carried anything of worth in it?’

‘Because he carried it with him that day?’ The words were out before Bess knew it. But if she did say so herself, it was unusual for a lad to go about wearing a scrip.

Hal held her gaze. ‘I’d not thought of that. But now you mention it, it is odd.’

‘If I have any more thoughts, I’ll let you know,’ said Bess. She leaned down to Hal and added in a low voice, ‘Watch your friend. I want no rowdiness tonight. Folk need to feel safe here.’

‘I’ll clear him out soon,’ Hal promised. ‘He’ll not wake happy as it is.’

As Bess moved on she tucked away the fact that Drogo had been thirsty and perhaps bleeding already when he’d arrived at the staithe, and the question of what Hubert de Weston had carried in his scrip. She could not follow the idea now for she needed full use of her wits to keep tab of how much of what folk were eating and drinking. Tragedy was good for business, as ever.

A man moved out from the shadows, blocking Owen’s access to the abbey infirmary. Owen cursed silently; when he’d entered the abbey grounds through the postern gate he’d thought he was alone. Drawing out his dagger – for it might be the would-be murderer intent on finishing his work, Owen called out, ‘Who goes there?’

The man moved closer so that Owen could see his hawk-nosed face. ‘It’s George Hempe.’

Relieved, Owen said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Hempe was a city bailiff, and the very one Owen would have sent for. He’d disliked Hempe until they had been thrown together in an investigation the previous year and he’d learned that the man’s intentions were good despite his stubborn and brusque manner, that he earnestly wished to bring criminals to justice. Bailiffs usually saw their duties as keeping the immediate peace, not preventing future trouble. Hempe was not so short-sighted.

‘Have you seen the pilot?’ Owen asked.

‘I had a glimpse of him as they carried him into the abbey grounds. But that is all. I’m not as welcome in here as you are. I can tell you he looked near death.’

‘How could you not be welcome? Were you not sent for?’

Hempe laughed. ‘I was, yes, but as soon as he saw me Abbot Campian made certain I understood that the man had fallen from the
abbey
staithe, not the
city
staithe, though it was
possible
he’d been attacked in the city. I’d been called upon to keep the peace among the city folk, not to interfere in abbey concerns. He sent for you as well?’

‘Yes. I might have avoided it, but my son Jasper was in the crowd of scholars at the staithe.’

‘Has Jasper an explanation of what happened?’

Owen was shaking his head as they came upon the outcast of the evening, Nicholas Ferriby.

‘Captain Archer, Master Bailiff, I must speak
with you.’ The schoolmaster’s deep voice trembled. ‘I am condemned of a crime that did not happen.’

‘Calm yourself,’ said Owen. ‘From what I’ve heard you did nothing wrong tonight.’

‘But the crowd out on Marygate,’ Nicholas gestured towards the abbey gate, ‘they accused me. Their voices were so angry. I wasn’t at the barges, Captain. I don’t know why they would even connect me with that man.’ He paused to catch his breath.

‘You are safe here in the abbey grounds,’ said Hempe.

Owen was impatient to move on, but he could imagine how unsettled the man must feel. ‘Some quiet prayer in the abbey church will calm you, Master Nicholas. Now I fear I must leave you. I’ve been summoned to the infirmary.’

‘Why?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To see Drogo’s wounds.’

‘The wounds – they complicate the story,’ said Hempe, considering Master Nicholas. ‘You swear you had not been seen with Drogo earlier in the afternoon?’

‘I swear!’ Nicholas cried, then groaned. ‘Even you?’

‘You are not in danger here,’ said Owen, shaking his head at Hempe to quiet him. He had no time to calm the schoolmaster. ‘Abide in the hospitium tonight, Master Nicholas.’

‘By morning the crowd will have forgotten you,’ said Hempe.

‘I pray you are right,’ said Nicholas. ‘But what if the man dies?’

‘Then we have much work to do,’ said Owen. ‘I must pass now.’

The schoolmaster stepped aside. ‘I shall go pray for his recovery.’

‘And I’ll see that the crowd has dispersed,’ said Hempe.

Inside the warmly lit infirmary, Owen found Brother Henry bent over an ailing monk, and he left him in peace for a moment. Scanning the room for Drogo, he was startled by memories. The hanging herbs, tidy rows of pallets, indeed the smell of the room reminded him of many visits with Brother Wulfstan. Owen had seldom come here since his friend’s death three years earlier. Brother Henry was capable, but not gifted like his predecessor; neither Lucie nor Owen came to him for advice.

‘Drogo lies over near the brazier,’ Henry softly called out.

Owen pulled himself back into the present and noticed the man now, or the shape of him beneath the blanket. Henry joined him.

‘He is dead?’ Owen asked.

Henry nodded and then crossed himself. ‘He died just a little while ago. I waited to move him to a more public place until you’d seen him.’

‘Did he ever wake?’

‘No. He made mewling sounds towards the end, as if in pain but too weak to cry out.’

‘That doesn’t sound like drowning,’ Owen said. ‘But a poisoned blade – that is no sudden quarrel but deliberate murder.’

Henry bowed his head and crossed himself. ‘The devil is loose in the city.’

‘The method is only too human,’ said Owen. ‘Let me see him.’

Henry uncovered Drogo’s head, then drew back the blanket to expose his right hand. The skin on his face already looked waxy and slightly grey, though around the cuts it was much darker and there was a trace of crust that did not look like a scab. It was too small a sample for either Owen or Lucie to detect the presence of poison, too little to smell or taste.

‘He tried to protect his face,’ Owen noted.

Henry nodded. ‘That is what I thought. The slits must have stung, but I wouldn’t think they were terribly painful. I suppose that’s why he went to the barges and not home to clean the wounds. What do you think?’

‘I think his attacker was confident of the poison. Depending on what it was, Drogo might have sought relief in the river as the pain worsened.’

‘May God grant him peace,’ said Henry.

Owen released Drogo’s hand. He crossed himself and said a prayer for the pilot’s soul. ‘Did you know him?’

Henry muted a sneeze with his hand. ‘A little. I’d spoken to him at the staithe now and then. He seemed a quiet man, though I heard murmurs
tonight that he was too ready with his fists when drunk.’