The Nun's Tale (31 page)

Lucie thought it would be difficult to like Campian, but she knew that he and Wulfstan were old friends.

‘Will she live, do you think?’ he asked.

‘If we can keep her from injuring herself. I wish I knew what she runs from. I would like to help her.’

‘What do you see in her that makes you wish to help her?’

Lucie considered the question. ‘In truth, I cannot say. Except that she is a fellow sinner, suffering something so horrible she wished to end her life. I have felt despair like that. I have come to wish for death at times. But I have never acted on it. How much more must she suffer not only to conceive the act, but to try to carry it out until she fainted from loss of blood.’

‘You think that is what stopped her? The loss of blood?’

Lucie nodded. ‘That and exhaustion from the terrible strength she called up to inflict those wounds.’

‘Is it possible they were not self-inflicted?’

Lucie shook her head. ‘I think not.’

‘How can you know?’

‘I said I
think
not. I do not
know
it is not so. I do not have the skill. But having spoken with Joanna, having seen some way into her heart, I can believe she did this to herself.’ Lucie lifted her cup of wine in trembling hands.

‘I am sorry I asked such questions.’

‘You have a right. She lies in your guest house.’

Lucie gazed round the small, comfortable room. On the far wall was a fresco of a Benedictine monk kneeling before a woman in a deep blue mantle, kissing her outstretched hand. Presumably the Blessed Virgin Mary, to whom the abbey was dedicated. The painting was simple, almost childlike, but for Mary’s eyes, which somehow expressed an immense sympathy and kindness.

Campian noticed where Lucie’s eyes lingered. ‘A clumsy painting, but I have grown fond of it.’

‘The Virgin’s eyes. Were they painted at the same time as the rest of the fresco?’

Campian looked surprised. ‘So you notice it, too? How Brother Peter’s gift blossomed when he reached her eyes?’

‘It is as if the rest of the fresco were merely a background, an explanation of the expression in her eyes.’

Abbot and apothecary looked at one another with fresh appreciation.

‘Has he painted anything else?’

Campian shook his head, his eyes sad. Lucie looked, startled, at his eyes, then at those of the fresco. The expressionless face, the soul revealed only by the eyes.

‘What is it?’ the abbot asked.

‘Nothing,’ Lucie said, sipping her wine to hide her smile.

‘Jasper is coming along quickly in his studies.’

‘I look forward to the day when he is back with us,’ Lucie said. ‘I think he will be a good apprentice. He is quick and level-headed.’

‘He is fond of Captain Archer.’

‘They have spent much time together. Owen has been readying Jasper to master the longbow.’

‘Your husband possesses an odd mix of talents.’

‘Indeed he does.’ Lucie’s eyes kept returning to the blue mantle on the fresco. ‘You have of course heard of the furore over the blue mantle Joanna keeps by her?’

Campian smiled. ‘Ah yes. Rumours of miracles.’

‘Are they all – the holy relics, I mean – are they all . . .’ Lucie could not say it.

The abbot nodded, understanding her unvoiced questions. ‘Are they what we claim?’

Lucie waited.

The abbot folded his hands and studied them. ‘We pray that they are, Mistress Wilton. And if they perform a miracle or two, it must be so, must it not?’ He raised his eyes to hers.

‘Do you ever doubt? I am thinking of the fuss at St Clement’s.’

Campian sighed.

‘Forgive me for that question.’

Campian’s eyes looked sad though his mouth smiled. ‘We would not preach so much of faith if we expected the faithful never to doubt, Mistress Wilton.’

A far more honest answer than Lucie had expected. ‘Thank you, Father.’

T
he house that Hugh Calverley had found so intriguing was a house like any other: wattle and daub, waxed parchment windows that would hum and thrum in a North Sea gale, a jutting second storey, a heavy oak door. The door was a wrong-headed attempt at security, for beside it were patches in the wall where intruders had found the wattle and daub easier to break through.

Harry had led Owen, Ned, and Alfred to the house the previous night. They had sent Harry back to the castle and settled in for a long watch, crouching in the shadows, alert to every sound in the street – the skitter of rats, the splash of night waste, the hesitant steps of drunks and thieves out after curfew. But no one had showed an interest in the house. No one had entered, no one had left. It had appeared deserted.

Tonight was different. Early in the evening a pale glow through a rear window had suggested occupation. When the darkness was complete and the street deserted, Owen motioned Ned to one side of the door and stationed himself on the other side. His ear to the narrow opening, Owen listened, his dagger ready. Ned leaned towards him, pointed to himself, to Owen’s shoulders, and then to the upper storey. Owen nodded. Ned took off his sword belt, handed it to Alfred, put one of his daggers in his mouth. Owen crouched down, hands on knees. Ned climbed onto his shoulders and Owen rose slowly. With his dagger, Ned poked at the waxed parchment, puncturing it, then sliced slowly, trying to be quiet. It was not a silent procedure, requiring some sawing of the waxed and weathered hide, but it was not a noise that the listener would necessarily find alarming. When Ned judged he had a sufficient opening, he tapped for Owen to lift him higher. Owen took Ned’s ankles, lifted. Ned grabbed the top of the frame, lifted his feet, and slipped them through the opening in the parchment, ripping it wider as his body followed.

Down in the street, someone else had judged the night now to be sufficiently advanced for stealth. He slipped towards Owen and Alfred, dipping in and out of doorways.

‘Is there some way to warn Ned?’ Alfred whispered. Owen shook his head and pulled Alfred with him into the deep shadow across the street. The man checked round the house, then pressed his ear to the wall beside the front door and listened for a long while. At last he moved to the door, crouched down, slipped his dagger in the crack by the door, moved it up slowly, slowly, and at last gently pulled. The door opened silently. The man knew the workings of the door, that was plain.

When he had slipped inside, Owen and Alfred crept towards the house. A cry came from within, the sound of a struggle, shouting. Fearing it might be Ned, Owen rushed in. Two men stood in the middle of the room, daggers in hand, circling each other, loudly cursing. One bled from a slice high on his arm. Ned was up above them, crouched at the top of the ladder; he nodded to Owen.

The bleeding man noticed Owen and gave a shout, then dashed into the back room. Owen rushed after him while, with a cry, Ned leaped down and knocked the other backwards.

Alfred took off after Owen, but they were both too late. The bleeding man had disappeared down the dark back alley.

When they returned, Ned was busy tying his captive’s hands.

Owen picked up the lantern that lit the room, opened its shutter all the way, and went off to search the house for more intruders or clues as to whom it belonged. The house was simply furnished: in the upper sleeping loft, a pallet and a chest which was empty; downstairs, a trestle table and two benches in the front room, two pallets and another chest in the back room. The latter chest held a man’s clothes. Nothing to give Owen any idea why Longford had visited the house or who the two men were.

Owen returned to the front room. ‘Time for a walk up to the castle.’ He shined the lantern on Ned’s captive. Ned yanked the man up by his tied hands. He bled from the nose and mouth. Owen found a rag and wiped his face.

‘Come on, stand up,’ Ned said, jerking the man off his knees.

The man stood, but kept his head down, as if hiding his face. He was of average height, but stocky, broad-chested, with muscular arms and legs. He was the one who had stolen into the house while Alfred and Owen had watched. The other had been tall and skinny.

‘What’s your name?’ Owen asked. The man did not respond.

Alfred grabbed him by the hair, jerked his face up, stared. ‘Murdering bastard!’ Alfred shouted and got in two punches, one in the mouth, one in the groin, before Owen got him off the man.

‘I cannot have you silencing him, Alfred. We need to talk to him.’ Owen put the lantern down on the table and helped the man back onto his feet, wiped his face again.

‘You killed Colin, you bastard,’ Alfred shouted, lunging towards him again.

Owen pushed Alfred away, walked the man over to the lantern light. ‘So you are the man who was watching St Clement’s?’ He studied the man. Dark, thinning hair, bushy eyebrows. That was about all he could tell at present, with the swelling and bleeding. ‘Perhaps you would tell us your name so we can call you something other than bastard.’

‘What good will that do you?’ The man’s words slurred round his swollen tongue. He coughed. ‘I was not the one killed his friend.’

‘What was your purpose here tonight?’

‘Unfinished business.’

‘Are you one of Captain Sebastian’s men?’

He stared at the floor.

Owen shrugged. ‘Someone at the castle will know you.’

Hugh Calverley’s manservant identified him as Edmund, one of Captain Sebastian’s men. He guessed the escaped man to be Jack, often in Edmund’s company. Harry knew nothing else of use.

‘So what is this unfinished business between two of Sebastian’s men?’ Owen asked.

Edmund’s dark eyes were wild with fear. ‘You have killed me, breaking in before I could finish him. Letting him escape.’

‘You meant to kill Jack?’

‘Or die in the attempt.’

‘On Sebastian’s orders?’

Edmund pressed his lips together and said nothing, but his eyes burned into Owen.

Two of Percy’s retainers took Edmund off to clean his wounds and keep him under guard.

While Ned and Owen slept, Louth went down to the house with some of Percy’s men and searched it. They found a jacket with a St Sebastian emblem sewn inside; in a small chest hidden behind panelling they found gold coins and a St Sebastian seal. All in all, proof of little except that they were on the right track.

Ned, Louth, and Owen summoned Edmund to a meeting.

Louth presented the jacket. Edmund shrugged. ‘Folk put all sorts of patterns on their clothing. I favour a plain fashion, myself. As you can see.’

Louth showed him the chest with the seal. Owen noted that Edmund looked less comfortable. ‘A nice piece of metalworking.’

Louth pretended to study it for the first time, holding it up to a lamp, turning it this way and that. ‘Indeed. Quite skilful.’ Sir William Percy had noted it was not exactly the same as the one Hugh had lost to Longford.

Owen grew impatient. ‘We believe it belongs to a Captain Sebastian, whom the King has sent us to find. You can point us towards him.’

Edmund’s eyes widened. ‘King Edward sent you?’ His tone was less surly.

Louth nodded.

‘Captain Sebastian must be important.’

Louth shrugged. ‘There are many ways in which to be important. Your captain is about to fight on the wrong side of his King. An unpleasant sort of importance.’

‘What is that to me?’ Edmund’s face was round, almost childish, though his thinning hair refuted youth. His voice was low and soft. His manner, now that he was not attacking, almost courteous. His thick brows arched as he tried to keep his face impassive. A futile effort, for his eyes were expressive.

Louth held up the King’s letter.

Owen noticed that Edmund’s eyes roamed over the letter, stopping nowhere. ‘You cannot read?’

Edmund blushed. ‘I’m no clerk. Neither are you, I’d wager.’

Owen grinned. ‘You are right that I am no clerk, but wager I cannot read and you would be out some money.’ He sat close to Edmund, stretched out his legs, folded his arms across his chest. ‘So you’re no clerk. What are you, then?’

Edmund shifted his eyes back and forth, as if remembering a rehearsed answer, which came after too long a pause to be believed. ‘A shipwright.’

Owen looked Edmund up and down. On his face, neck and hands his fair skin was freckled from the sun and his hands were calloused, but he did not look weathered enough to be a shipwright. Owen noted another usefully readable part of Edmund’s anatomy, his mouth, which puckered when he was not comfortable with what he had just said, as now. But Owen pretended to take his reply seriously. ‘A shipwright. I suppose that is a common trade here. And you were in York watching St Clement’s for – Let’s see. Perhaps the sisters owe money on a ship you built them?’

Edmund looked down at his feet, pressed his lips together.

Louth looked from Owen to Edmund, puzzled.

Owen let the silence drag on.

After several minutes in which nervous sweat slicked down the sparse hairs at his temples, Edmund lifted his troubled eyes and asked, ‘What does the King offer Captain Sebastian?’