The Guilt of Innocents (9 page)

‘Quiet,’ Lucie whispered, rubbing her great stomach.

Someone clattered up the stairs.

‘Hugh,’ said Owen with a laugh. ‘Do you think he’ll ever walk a straight line?’

The boy proceeded to pound on their door. When Alisoun called him away, he stomped in protest.

‘We’re awake,’ Owen called out. ‘Save the door and let Hugh in.’

Lucie laughed with him, hiding her disappointment in Owen’s allowing the interruption.

The door eased open and Hugh peered around it, his fiery red hair unmistakable for anyone else’s. Seeing Owen and Lucie watching for him, he squealed and raced into the room.

From the hallway, out of view, Alisoun said, ‘I am sorry about Hugh. I was too slow to catch him. A messenger is here from His Grace the Archbishop. He said he is to bring Captain Archer to the palace at once.’

Lucie and Owen exchanged looks of regret over the moving head of their son.

‘I told you he’d send for me.’

‘You’ve not broken your fast,’ Lucie said, wanting him healthy.

‘He’ll feed me,’ said Owen. ‘But I can’t go at once. I want to say good morning to Gwenllian.’ He was already up and dressing. ‘I’ll tell him I’ll come to the palace bye and bye.’

The snow had stopped before Owen stepped out into Davygate, and already what had fallen was turning to a slippery slush underfoot, the sort of
surface he’d hated since losing half his sight. Long ago, while in the service of the Duke of Lancaster, he’d been blinded by the
leman
of a prisoner of war, a debility that had ended his career as captain of archers. Neither the duke’s physician nor Magda Digby had been able to save Owen’s sight. It was then that he’d learned to read and write in order to be the duke’s ears in the court circles, and it was these abilities as well as his fighting skills that had interested Archbishop Thoresby when the old duke died – for as Lord Chancellor of England the archbishop also had need of a spy. Owen had loved and honoured the old duke, Henry of Grosmont, a fine commander and a deeply pious man. Owen had not trusted the new duke, the husband of Henry’s daughter Blanche and a younger son of the king, and had therefore agreed to enter Thoresby’s service, naïvely believing that an archbishop would be as moral as the old duke. He’d quickly learned to his regret that although Thoresby was a man of God, he was also an ambitious man, a man who believed that it was often best to look the other way in order to protect strategic alliances. Falling in love with Lucie Wilton had tied Owen to the archbishop’s service. It was not only that in deference to his lord the guild had allowed Lucie to continue in her late husband’s apothecary upon marrying Owen, but even more importantly the circumstances of her husband’s death might have remained a blot on Lucie’s name but for Thoresby’s influence. For that, Owen owed him his allegiance.

With his faulty depth-perception challenging him in the half-light of the snowy November streets, Owen picked his way past York Minster and into the grounds of the archbishop’s palace with a caution that frustrated him – he was aching to stretch and move. When he found that the stone steps leading up to the palace doors had already been swept of snow, he took them two at a time. He found Brother Michaelo, secretary to the archbishop, awaiting him in the doorway to Thoresby’s private hall in his characteristically spotless Benedictine habit, an amused expression on his aristocratically bony face.

‘You are restless in the city, Captain?’ he asked in his Norman accent. ‘Or were you impatient to reach the top?’

‘Both,’ Owen said, catching his breath. For that to have winded him meant he needed far more activity than he had managed of late.

Michaelo responded with an elegant shrug. ‘His Grace awaits you in his parlour.’

‘This is about the drowning?’

Michaelo lowered his head slightly, his manner of nodding. ‘I warn you, His Grace rose quite early and is not in good temper.’

‘Thank you for the warning.’

Owen found Thoresby sitting by a brazier in his parlour, his hands steepled before him, staring out the glazed window opposite that opened onto the winter garden. He slowly turned to acknowledge Owen.

‘You came in your own good time, Archer.’ His sunken eyes were difficult to read, but the irritation in his deep voice was quite clear.

‘I was filthy, Your Grace, and I did not wish to insult you with my state, so I washed.’ It was a safe lie, for Thoresby had an unusual fondness for bathing. Owen bowed to him and then took his seat beside a small table set with bread, cheese, and ale. ‘Your Grace is kind to think of me.’

To Owen’s surprise, Thoresby broke out in deep-bellied laughter.

‘Kind? I did not think I would live to see the day when you called me kind.’

‘You are in a better humour than I expected.’ Owen wondered why Brother Michaelo had misled him. But it was a passing thought as he reached for the food; it was always a boon to be offered the hospitality of Maeve’s kitchen. He broke off a piece of the crumbly cheese and popped it into his mouth, followed by Maeve’s unparalleled pandemain, the softest, whitest bread under heaven.

‘Do you know about yesterday’s tragedy on the Abbey Staithe, Archer?’ Thoresby asked, serious once more. He poured water and wine from delicate flagons of Italian glass into a matching goblet, then sat back in his throne-like chair to sip it.

Owen had not seen the flagon and goblet set before. As he washed down with the strong ale
what he’d managed to eat so far he wondered whether the mayor was still trying to win Thoresby’s trust with valuable gifts.

‘The abbey infirmarian sent for me,’ said Owen. ‘And Jasper had been on the staithe when Drogo went into the Ouse. I’ve not yet spoken to the bargemen.’ He went down the list of what he knew so far.

Thoresby interrupted only when Owen came to Nicholas Ferriby’s unfortunate timing.

‘Do you believe it was pure chance?’

‘More than likely, Your Grace. Why would a guilty man risk stepping close to the man? But the fact is, Drogo was not yet dead at that point. It was hardly a miracle that his wounds bled. It is the way of crowds, forgetting their wits in their excitement.’

‘I don’t want the outcry about that incident to become part of the conflict between Ferriby and St Peter’s School,’ Thoresby said.

‘How would it?’

Thoresby held his goblet with both hands and swirled the contents as he gazed down at it. ‘Such a crime would seal Nicholas Ferriby’s damnation – a scandal for both the clerical Ferribys. William would also suffer.’ He glanced up at Owen. ‘You think I’m losing my wits.’ He sighed. ‘I’m slower, more tired, but my wits are in order, Archer.’ He rose with a grunt and crossed over to the window, his simple clerical robes hanging loosely on his tall, increasingly gaunt frame. ‘They cannot understand
why I count Ferriby’s school as nothing more than an annoying flea in the minster liberty, perhaps not even so much. They should have made certain of my support before threatening him with excommunication. It carries no weight without my support, and now they are angry with me.’

‘They might recall your censoring the opening of a song school in the city, Your Grace.’

‘You know that was different, Archer. The song school is a Church affair. A grammar school is useful to all who would enter a trade, learning reasoning, reading, a little writing.’

Owen did see the difference. ‘I am surprised that the dean supports the chancellor’s excessive anger.’ As it was the chancellor’s role in the liberty to oversee the grammar and song schools, it was understandable that a rival school might anger him. But Owen would have thought the dean would have a cooler head. ‘Would the Pope agree with this even if you were to support them? Is holding a rival grammar school such a terrible sin against the Church?’

Thoresby turned from the window, smiling. ‘Of course not. But they’ll use the incident with Drogo against Ferriby. They’ll find a way, mark me, Archer.’

Owen thought it best not to mention the grammar master’s Wycliffite opinions. Thoresby would only resent his giving him a reason to question his support of Nicholas. ‘That someone mortally wounded Drogo is of more concern to the folk of this city,’ said Owen. ‘The lad whose
scrip is at the centre of all this must be found.’

‘Indeed,’ said the archbishop, thoughtfully nodding. ‘I am aware that the lad might be in danger.’

Owen had been ready to argue that point, as was his custom with Thoresby. Sometimes he wondered whether Thoresby’s contrariness had always been a game meant to irk him.

Returning to his chair, the archbishop took up his cup, sipped, and then asked, ‘What is your plan?’

He decided to be glad of the archbishop’s improved attitude. ‘The lad’s almost certainly not in the city, and from what Jasper tells me it’s quite likely he’s tried to return home. He might have learned that his father survived La Rochelle and has gone home. Master John of St Peter’s has received no reply to the message he sent to the lad’s mother, but then Master Nicholas, her parish priest, is not there to read it to her. I propose to head to Weston in the hope that the lad is at home, or if he is not to search the countryside between here and Weston.’

‘And if you find no trace of him?’

‘Perhaps his parents might suggest another likely place. But if not …’ Owen shrugged, not at present having a further plan. ‘At least we’ll have tried all we could think to do.’

‘Yes.’ Thoresby shifted a little. ‘What might the lad have carried? Have you any idea?’ He sought Owen’s good eye and held his gaze.

‘None,’ Owen admitted. ‘Anything that would fit in a lad’s scrip and is of value to someone. That is little to go on.’

‘A fool’s errand, going to Weston?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Take horses from my stables,’ said Thoresby, ‘and what men you see fit to accompany you. I would offer my barge, but I think the River Wharfe has too many rapids for it.’

Owen had hardly expected such a generous offer as the barge. He was a little sorry that it wasn’t appropriate for the journey. ‘Aye. It is not so navigable as the Ouse. Who will you be taking with you to Bishopthorpe?’

‘You need not concern yourself with that in choosing men. I intend to remain in York until this matter is settled. I don’t like the idea of Ferriby being made a scapegoat for the minster’s financial problems. If they need more money for the upkeep of the school they should raise fees or accept more students, not threaten a good man with excommunication.’

‘Is that at the bottom of your support? Not the lad’s fate?’

‘Both their fates are at present intertwined, Archer. Now who will accompany you?’

‘Not Alfred. He’s of more use to me here, in charge. I’ll take Rafe and Gilbert.’

Thoresby nodded. ‘Do you know young Hubert de Weston by sight?’

‘I’d thought of that. No, I don’t, but Jasper
knows him, and his presence would be reassuring to the lad.’

‘You might take Nicholas Ferriby,’ Thoresby suggested. ‘There is no need to involve more in your household.’

‘Jasper already feels a part of all this, Your Grace. He’s fond of Hubert, and remembers how he felt when his father died.’

‘You don’t trust Ferriby,’ said Thoresby.

‘If that were true I would not have sent Alisoun to his school. Even so, whether or not I trust him is beside the point, Your Grace.’

‘Do you think Drogo’s bleeding was a sign of Ferriby’s guilt?’ A hint of a smile played on the archbishop’s thin lips.

‘No. But his imprudent decision about the grammar school –’ Thoresby had touched on something Owen had been trying to ignore – ‘I do question his motives now.’
And I worry about what he’s teaching
. ‘But there was no bleeding corpse, Your Grace. Drogo was alive.’

‘So be it,’ Thoresby said. ‘I am counting on you to save my friend Emma Ferriby from more grief.’

So that was his interest in this. Lucie’s good friend was the daughter of an old, very dear friend of the archbishop’s. His death the previous year had aged Thoresby even more than had the death of Queen Phillippa, whom he’d worshipped. Owen and Lucie had both become involved in the aftermath of Sir Ranulf’s death, and he understood why Thoresby wished to spare the family.

‘Emma considers her brother-in-law a fool for placing his school in the liberty,’ said Owen.

‘He is still her husband’s brother,’ said Thoresby. ‘I want this settled as quietly and as quickly as possible.’ The fire was visible in his eyes now.

Owen emptied his cup of ale.

Thoresby rose. ‘I’ll tell Michaelo that you will be choosing some horses from the stables, and he’ll prepare a letter of introduction for you. It might be helpful to talk to the family’s landlord, Baldwin Gamyll.’

Owen bowed. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Do not disappoint me, Archer.’

‘That is not my intention I assure you, Your Grace. I shall do my best; the rest is in God’s hands.’

Thoresby grunted and waved him out the door.

The archbishop rarely took Owen’s faith as sincere. It was one of many aspects of their relationship that puzzled Owen, that Thoresby trusted him, counted on him, but considered him a man of little faith.

As he stepped out into what had become a sunny but chilly day, Owen decided not to leave the minster liberty at once, but to stop at the lodgings of Nicholas Ferriby. He assumed the man was not still hiding in the abbey.