The Nun's Tale (44 page)

‘No.’

‘Did anyone see it?’

‘Dame Prudentia, the infirmaress,’ Jasper said. ‘She cried a lot and said it was her fault. But the captain told her that when people are determined to do such things, no one can stop them, just delay them.’ Jasper gazed round at the attentive faces lifted towards him. This was a benefit of being an apprentice in the Wilton apothecary that he had not foreseen. ‘Those men wear the livery of Captain Sebastian of Scarborough. He was a traitor, but now he fights for our King.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Captain Archer went to Scarborough and convinced him to fight for Right.’

All heads turned to study the livery of the shackled men.

‘But look at the one coming out with Captain Archer. He’s wearing the livery, but he’s free.’

Jasper ducked back behind the corner of the building. Owen might not be pleased to see him there. ‘That’s Edmund of Whitby,’ Jasper told his friends. ‘He helped the captain a lot, so His Grace the Archbishop has pardoned him. But he must return to Scarborough and answer to the Percies. He’ll be under guard, but unshackled.’

His friends peered again round the corner to watch for any further action. They were disappointed there were to be no beheadings or hangings.

T
he men riding ahead of Edmund talked of how Fortune smiled on them, to be ordered down to the shore on such a warm day. They were glad to escape the stinking city. Edmund rode silently behind them, trying not to look at the blue sky. It reminded him of the cursed mantle he had given Joanna Calverley, the mantle he now carried. He had asked the Reverend Mother for this small thing, the mantle; perhaps it
was
somehow blessed and might speed Stefan on towards Heaven. Dame Isobel had gladly given him the mantle, pleased to be rid of it. ‘For it was you who gave it to poor Joanna. It should go back to you.’

Perhaps it
had
been blessed – it had carried Joanna, the cause of all this sorrow, to her own destruction. It remained a puzzle to Edmund why everyone had been so determined to keep Joanna alive. He had not flinched at the sight of Joanna’s blood, her bruised and swollen neck. She had wished for death. But he was grateful, in the end, that the sisters had frustrated Joanna’s attempts to starve herself. It was far more satisfying to him that she had died violently, with pain.

Now Edmund wound his way down a bluff on the North Sea to identify a body that had been washed up on the beach below. If it was Stefan, Edmund would wrap him in the frayed blue mantle and carry him back to Scarborough. Before departing to join King Edward, Captain Sebastian had arranged for a search party and, if Stefan’s body were found, it was to be buried under the aisle in the manor chapel. It was characteristic of the captain, this courtesy. It was this made his men so loyal. He had learned it from du Guesclin.

Ever since the word had come, Edmund had prayed it was not Stefan. As long as his friend’s body was not found, there was hope. Edmund could imagine Stefan alive and thriving, perhaps fighting with the Free Companies on the continent.

Edmund’s companions reined in their horses. ‘There,’ one shouted above the surf and wind, ‘down in that cave.’

Edmund took the lantern from his saddle, draped the mantle round his neck, and walked across the sand to the cave. His companions followed, but waited outside.

Stepping inside, Edmund stood a moment, blinded after the sun-drenched beach. He took a deep breath, smelled high tides and another odour – man’s mortality. He opened a shutter on the lantern, held the mantle up to his mouth and nose, and moved towards a makeshift grave of rocks crowned with driftwood, just cover enough to keep out scavengers. The stench grew stronger, overpowering the scent of the sea water in the tidal pools. Edmund set the lantern on a stone and shoved aside the driftwood cover, still holding the mantle to his face. Then he lifted the lantern over the bloated, half-eaten body. There was so little left untouched, but the hair was blond, the height and build Stefan’s, and the broken front tooth unmistakable. One hand clutched a leather purse attached to a thong at Stefan’s waist. Edmund set the lantern down and worked the purse loose, his hands shaking with emotion.

‘You were a good friend, Stefan, and I mean to be one in return. I take ship in a few days for your homeland. All your earthly belongings will be delivered up to your wife, and I shall tell her what a fine man you were. Rest in peace, my friend. Your family shall not want.’

Edmund called to the men waiting outside.

When Stefan’s body was wrapped in the mantle and slung across the extra horse, Edmund looked in the leather purse. There, sadly intact, was the seal of Captain Sebastian. The seal that would have provided Joanna and Hugh safe passage to France and a cursed marriage. Edmund wished with all his heart that Stefan had been too late to discover Joanna with Hugh, had been left, heartbroken, but alive, wondering why she had deserted him. He must now find a way to describe this tragedy to Stefan’s wife as an honourable death.

Owen, Ned, and Thoresby rode out of York on a sunny August day, headed for Pontefract. Ned and Thoresby would continue with the Duke’s retinue to Windsor; Owen would return in a few days. Lancaster had invited him to a high mass blessing the new captains and their Castilian adventure, with an accompanying feast at which Owen would be a guest of honour.

He had thought to refuse. He wanted no more of travelling, no more of Thoresby. But Lucie had insisted, supported by Bess and Magda; Lucie argued that Owen should see his friends once more before they all embarked on their new endeavours, for who knew when they might all meet again in this life.

Lucie had, it seemed, been doing quite a lot of thinking since Joanna Calverley’s death. ‘Life is short and precious, and happiness even more so. I think we should swallow our pride and accept Sir Robert’s gift of Corbett’s house.’

Owen found this new mood strange. ‘This new philosophy has convinced you to accept him as your father?’

Lucie had looked uncomfortable. ‘He is an old man. I fear I might regret it if I continue to reject him.’

‘And I, too, must swallow my pride?’

‘He means no insult, Owen. He says you are a good husband to me, and he is proud of you.’

‘Because of Thoresby.’

She shrugged.

‘And my time as captain of archers for the old Duke.’

‘Faith, what is the harm in that? Sir Robert was a soldier – like you when I first met you – it is the life he knew best.’

‘Will you call him “father” when you accept?’

‘I shall try to.’

With such a concession on Lucie’s part, what could Owen say? ‘Perhaps with a larger house we shall find opportunities for quiet moments together.’

Now he rode between Ned and Thoresby, contemplating another unexpected offer. Just a few moments ago, while they had paused at an inn, Thoresby had proposed that he be godfather to the child on the way.

Ned had blinked at the archbishop in disbelief.

Owen had tried to be courteous, but he was at once suspicious. What did Thoresby want in return? ‘I am most honoured, Your Grace. But such a responsibility. Particularly if our first child is a son.’

The archbishop had nodded. ‘And if it is a daughter, I propose to act as godfather to her and to your first son.’

‘Your Grace,’ Owen had to ask, ‘to what do my wife and I owe this honour?’

Ned had kicked him under the table, his large brown eyes wide with shock at his friend’s bluntness to so great a man.

But Thoresby threw back his head and laughed. ‘What do I want from you, that is the question I see in your eye. I predicted this response when I discussed the matter with Sir Robert and Jehannes.’

‘You . . . Sir Robert said nothing to me.’

‘Because I asked him to keep his counsel. And Jehannes. You might find reassurance in their delight in the proposal.’

Now that he knew his honesty would not be taken amiss, Owen drank down his ale and sat forward, elbows on the table. ‘You still have not explained . . .’

‘I am an old man, Archer, full of aches and pains and failing parts that remind me constantly of my mortality. The thought of playing some part in a new life – why, it is quite a cheerful thing to contemplate.’ He had told Owen to think about it, to discuss it with Lucie.

Owen had much to consider as they rode towards Pontefract.

Wobbly with brandywine, Owen sank down on the stone shelf in a sentry post. It was a warm August night, and he, Lief, Gaspare, and Ned had come up onto the walls of Pontefract to get some air after hours of attacking tables groaning with food and drink.

‘What am I celebrating, I wonder?’ Owen muttered.

‘A successful investigation,’ Ned said with a slap on the back that almost knocked Owen over. ‘You managed to please three, maybe four lords with it – Lancaster, Thoresby, the King, and for all we know, the Lord God Himself. Can you imagine – a lusty, incestuous bride of Christ! It might be blasphemous to even speak of it!’

‘You’re drunk, Ned.’

‘So are you, Owen. But thank the Lord I’m a cheerful drunk. You just brood more than ever.’

Lief and Gaspare joined them.

‘What’s our friend brooding about now?’ Lief asked.

‘He has nothing to celebrate,’ Ned crowed. ‘He has forgotten the honour offered by John Thoresby – the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England has offered to be godfather to Owen and Lucie’s first child, and to their first son as well if a daughter comes first.’

‘Sweet Mary and all the saints,’ Lief muttered. ‘A child with such a godparent shall surely prosper.’

Owen belched.

Gaspare slapped him on the back. ‘So what’s the gloom?’

How quickly they forgot Joanna Calverley. Owen looked up at his friends’ shadowy faces, then beyond to the stars. ‘She might have been up there. She might have died in grace. But suicides are the folk we know for certain burn in Hell for all eternity. Their very deaths are terrible sins.’

Lief sat down with a grunt. ‘Ah. ’Tis the nun who haunts you. How do you know that she did not regret her act and pray for forgiveness as she fell? How do you know that?’

Owen frowned, too drunk to come up with an answer. It was possible . . . ‘I should like to think that.’

‘What I want to know is whether you and Lucie have come to your senses and accepted Sir Robert’s generous gift,’ Lief said. ‘Alice and I would ne’er say nay to such a house.’

Owen shrugged. ‘Sir Robert bought the house, and he says it will sit there empty until we come round, for he’s had enough of the city for a long time to come. He looks forward to my return, when he can go back to Freythorpe Hadden and walk his fields. He says he cannot breathe enough air in the city.’

Gaspare grabbed the brandywine and took a long drink, then handed it to Owen. ‘Drink to your new home, Owen.’

‘And to your child’s fortune in such a godfather,’ Lief said.

Owen dropped his head. ‘I have had enough.’

Gaspare and Ned both snorted. ‘Is it possible to have enough brandywine?’ Ned asked.

‘To live a long life,’ Lief paused to belch – ‘a man must know his limits.’

Gaspare and Ned exchanged grins.

‘Wives and children,’ Gaspare said. ‘How they tame a man.’

They all tilted their faces towards the stars and let the night air cool them.

Down below, in Lancaster’s private parlour, Thoresby and the Duke shared brandywine before retiring.

‘Your man Archer is worth his weight in gold, Chancellor. I regret having lost him to you.’

‘Sometimes I think he regrets choosing me, my lord Duke.’

‘A man like him chafes at any authority, I should think.’

Thoresby felt the Duke studying him. ‘What is it?’

‘You do not seem pleased with the outcome of this investigation.’

‘Dissatisfied. Not displeased.’

‘Because there is no one to punish?’

‘God makes us such slaves to our passions. It seems a cruel twist to our natures.’

Lancaster shrugged. ‘Well, I am most pleased
and
satisfied. You have been generous with your assistance, Chancellor. I must repay you in equal measure.’

Thoresby sat back, studied Lancaster over the rim of his cup. A golden lion of a man, like his father Edward in his prime. And almost as powerful as his father at this age. He might not be King of England and Wales, but he was Duke of Lancaster, an inheritance possibly worth more coin than that of the King. So young to be so powerful. He might do a lot for Thoresby. ‘You know my desire, my lord Duke. Alice Perrers out of your father’s bedchamber. Any spur you might give to that exile will be most appreciated.’ He would not be greedy, not with so much at stake.

Lancaster swirled the brandywine in his cup and stared down into the whirlpool. ‘Mistress Alice. I had heard of your mutual dislike. But since then I have heard she admires you.’

That disturbed Thoresby. What was the bitch up to? ‘A new ploy, my lord Duke, nothing more, you can be certain.’

‘I confess I find her vulgar and unlovely, but she has a quick wit and a knack for cheering the Queen – that, I should think, would endear her to you.’