The Riddle of St Leonard's (13 page)

‘Is it a riddle? I delight in riddles. Is there more?’

Laurence had glanced over to Julian, who perched on the edge of his seat, as if about to pounce on his friend. ‘Oh, if you could see your face, old friend,’ Laurence had exclaimed. ‘You see, Sir Richard, Julian is so weary of my mystical babbling he is horrified to hear it.’

‘Mystical? Then your questions were in earnest? Not riddles?’ Ravenser was disappointed, but willing to pursue such an interesting line.

Alas, Julian had joined them and, bowing to Ravenser, he had said, ‘We must get him home now, Sir Richard, else he shall make a fool of himself with more riddles. Too much of your fine wine this evening.’

Obviously a joke between two friends, for Laurence had gone good-naturedly.

But Matilda de Warrene had seemed as perplexed by the incident as Ravenser had been.

Ravenser drained his cup. It was disquieting that the Warrenes were both gone. It was strange to think that he would not see them again until he, too, was dead. And how soon might that be? Did God mean to give him time to rise to one of the high offices his uncle had taught him to covet – Keeper of the Privy Seal, Lord Chancellor, Archbishop? Or was Queen’s Receiver and Keeper of the Hanaper the best he was to do? Not that Queen’s Receiver was a lowly position, but with the Queen dying and the King besotted with his mistress, his work in that capacity would soon be at an end. For a time at least.

Ravenser rose to refill his cup. His last game of chess with Laurence had been interrupted, as he recalled; Matilda had been taken ill. He wandered over to the corner table on which he kept the chess set, curious whether the pieces had been moved. To his annoyance the set was not there. Curséd servants. He must tell Douglas to instruct them not to move things round when they cleaned. So where was it? Ravenser searched the room but did not find the chess set. In the process he also noted the absence of a pair of silver candlesticks that had stood on a chest by the door. Why was he able to find good help in Beverley but not in York? Was it the hospital environment? Were servants afraid they might be ordered to work among the sick?

Whatever the matter, the servants must be better trained. Ravenser sent for Douglas.

Douglas, shoulders hunched forward, as always, to hide the paunch so emphasised by his straight-cut gown, frowned with distress at the empty table-tops. ‘I shall call the servants together and lecture them sternly, Sir Richard.’

‘Good. Meanwhile, find the chess set and the candlesticks.’

Douglas bowed and headed for the door. Ravenser noticed he carried the account books.

‘Stay a moment, Douglas. How did you fare with Cuthbert?’

The clerk turned, his face solemn. ‘It is worse than we thought, Sir Richard.’

‘God’s blood, how is that possible? Leave the accounts here.’

Douglas looked uncertain. ‘Your headache, Sir Richard?’

‘Can be no worse. Go. The chess set and candlesticks.’

After depositing the books on the table beside Ravenser’s favourite chair, Douglas departed.

Ravenser returned to his seat and tried to quiet his mind by reading through the hospital accounts line by line. He must have dozed off, for he woke to find Douglas bending over him, a servant at his elbow.

‘What is it?’ Ravenser demanded curtly to cover his sleepy confusion.

‘The servants swear they have not touched the missing items, Sir Richard, though none can say when they last saw them.’

Ah. The chess set and candlesticks. Now Ravenser remembered. He glanced at the servant. ‘Who has been cleaning this room?’

‘I do most days, sir. But some days ’tis Mary cleans here.’ The servant stood stiffly, his eyes focused on Douglas’s shoulder.

‘And neither of you noticed the set and the candlesticks were missing.’

‘Go on, Peter,’ Douglas said gently. ‘Show Sir Richard what you found.’

‘I—’ Peter coughed, cleared his throat. ‘I did notice at last, sir, because I found this’ – he held out an ocre-stained knight – ‘’twas fallen behind the chest, you see. Then I remembered the set. But I could not find it. Nowhere in the house, sir.’

Ravenser took the ivory piece, turned it round in his hand. ‘I do not like this.’

‘Mayhap they, too, have been stolen, my lord.’ Peter’s face was pinched with distaste for the words.

They, too
. So the servants knew of the other thefts. Of course they did. God help him, as if he did not have troubles enough. Servants had no discretion. ‘You may go, Peter.’

When the servant had departed, Ravenser dictated his request to Archbishop Thoresby to Douglas.

‘Captain Archer, Sir Richard? The one who helped you with Dame Joanna Calverley?’

‘The very one. Send Topas to Bishopthorpe with the note, Douglas. Tell him to wait for an answer.’

L
ame John Ffulford had decided to give up the search for his niece Alisoun. A week had passed since the priest had come to him, and for all his efforts, John had seen no sign of the child, save that she had managed to sneak away with the nag before he had reached his brother’s farm. Who knew how far she might have wandered? But she had left the cart, and one or two items his wife might fancy. So this morning he had brought his donkey to pull the loaded cart home.

And who should he have found in the barn but Alisoun, tending to a wound on her nag’s shoulder. God tested him sorely.

Now the girl stood beside the cart, arms folded, eyes cast down. She looked like some wild thing, shoeless, her gown in tatters, her hair a snarl of knots and debris.

Lame John shook his head. ‘God help me, but if you were not my brother’s daughter, and all that’s left of his family, I would leave you here, you stubborn child. For a week you have led us a merry chase.’ He tossed the bag of clothes and sundry items on to the cart, then grabbed his niece by the shoulder. ‘Climb up or I’ll toss you up, you changeling.’ She was like her mother, she was. His brother Duncan’s wife Judith had ever been a sullen, secretive woman. Duncan had oft complained about her. And he had feared she put strange ideas into her children’s heads about how they had been born to better than what they had and someday would move up to a grander life. But John’s immediate problem was how to reconcile his wife to Alisoun’s presence. When the priest had come with the news that they must do something for the girl, Colet had agreed, but she had been very uncomfortable with the idea of Alisoun actually living with them.

‘How did she survive when they did not, husband? A pact with the Devil, is how. Traded their lives for hers. And she will do the same with us.’

Now that was Colet’s family, always ready to blame trouble on the Devil, or, at the least, spells and curses. John had demanded her co-operation in God’s name.

But the child was difficult. ‘My horse,’ she reminded him.

‘We shall send Rich for her as soon as he is able. She has plenty feed.’

The eyes in the child’s dirty face looked forlorn.

‘For pity’s sake, we would not let the creature die. A horse is too valuable.’

‘Pull her behind the cart.’

‘Nay, child, the going is quicker without pulling a wounded nag behind, and I have much work to do in the fields. From which you have kept me these seven days.’

‘I shall help you.’

‘You might have helped more by coming to me on your own. And now this nag. What if she pulls away? With my bad leg, I cannot chase her.’

‘I can.’

‘I said she stays behind.’

‘Send Rich for me and my horse.’

‘I shall not leave you here alone another night, child.’

‘Someone will steal her.’

‘The nag belonging to a family dead of pestilence? Nay, child. Folk will fear it. And they will fear you, now I think of it.’

The girl squinted up at him. ‘Why don’t you?’

‘You must put on a pleasant face, child, else your aunt will curse me.’

‘So let me stay here.’

‘You have no flesh on you. You’ve not been eating.’

‘I eat.’

‘Not enough.’

‘Whoever has enough?’

‘Aye, you have felt the hunger. Come now. Rich will come for your prize horse in a day or so.’

‘Or so?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘God will smite you if you do not.’

Lame John frowned. She was so small, yet so determined to have her way. And evidently thought God meant her to have it, too. ‘Smite me, will He? Does the Lord oft do your bidding?’

Her head dropped, bony shoulders lifted. A tear worked its way down the muddy face, leaving a pale trail.

‘Nay, He has not, child. He has tested you sorely of late. Come. Let Colet and Lame John give you some good food and company, eh?’

Alisoun met his gaze, her chin jutting forward. ‘Tomorrow? He will come tomorrow?’

‘Aye, child, tomorrow.’

‘You swear?’

‘I swear.’

Ravenser crossed the yard to the infirmary. He wished to express his condolences to Julian Taverner and discuss the need for silence. The morning was chilly though the fog had lifted. Clouds gathered to the north, promising rain. Rain would be a relief, Ravenser thought. It would settle the dust, perhaps wash away some of the pestilential vapours.

As he passed the ugly remains of Warrene’s house, Ravenser paused, remembering the couple. Matilda had been a quiet woman, happiest, it seemed, in her garden. Laurence had been a fussy husband, always reminding her to dress warmly, eat as much as she could. Had they been so when they first married? He wandered back to the ruined garden. A neat row of feathery carrot crowns bobbed in the breeze. Not such a wasteland, then. He would ask Douglas to find someone to tend the garden. It would be a fitting memorial to a gentle woman and would provide the kitchen with fresh vegetables.

In the infirmary, Ravenser found Julian Taverner sitting up in bed, frowning at the opposite wall. His white hair framed his face like a pale lion’s mane, though lopsided. Ravenser realised Julian’s hair must have been singed on one side and the burned ends removed. On his forehead and chin were angry patches of healing flesh and a thick dressing protected the wound on the back of his skull. His hands were awkward with bandages. But even so, Julian did not look like a victim. His dark eyes were fierce in his lined face.

‘What is amiss, Master Taverner?’ Ravenser asked quietly. ‘Do you have a complaint about the care you are receiving?’

The angry eyes moved up, softened. ‘Sir Richard.’ Julian leaned forward, nodded to the stool against the wall. ‘Pray, sit yourself down,’ he said in his loud voice. ‘God bless you for coming.’

Ravenser moved the stool closer to the bed.

‘Nay,’ Julian continued, ‘I cannot complain about the care.’

‘But you looked so angry.’

‘’Twas naught.’

‘Come now. Tell me what angers you.’

The elderly man hesitated. ‘I make much of naught.’

‘You paid a goodly sum to lodge here. You deserve to be heard.’

Julian’s eyes softened more. ‘It is Mistress Catherine’s cough. Do you hear it?’

Ravenser had indeed noticed the incessant coughing down the corridor. ‘It keeps you awake?’

‘I merely asked whether I or Mistress Catherine might be moved so that I might escape the sound. It was a simple request. And Don Cuthbert behaved as if I were demanding my meals were served on golden platters with dancing women for my entertainment.’

‘Ah.’ Ravenser did not wish to become embroiled in such mundane problems. ‘The hospital is very busy at the moment. You must forgive short tempers. I shall see what can be done.’

‘I would be most grateful, Sir Richard.’

Ravenser considered the man’s bandages, noted that they looked clean. ‘With all else you are satisfied?’

‘Aye.’

Thanks be to God his complaint was so slight. ‘I have thought much about Laurence since I learned of his death. I shall miss him.’

Julian averted his eyes. ‘Oh, aye. There’s none to replace Laurence.’

‘And to happen so soon after Matilda’s passing. You have suffered much sorrow of late.’

Julian said nothing.

‘I should be cheering you.’ But in faith, Ravenser could think of nothing jolly to mention.

The uneasy silence was broken by Julian. ‘I do have one other request, Sir Richard. My niece has proved to be considerate and efficient in this trying time. I should like to change my will. Might your secretary assist me?’

A will? So he had more than what he had paid for his corrody and donated to the hospital? Ravenser wondered whether St Leonard’s was remembered in the will. ‘I shall be happy to send Douglas to you. Do I know your niece?’

‘Bess Merchet. She and her husband run the York Tavern.’

Ravenser closed his eyes to hide his dismay. Bess Merchet. He had forgotten. A woman with her nose in everything in the city.

‘It was my niece who convinced Cuthbert and Erkenwald to examine Laurence before he was buried. She wished them to see the wound on the back of his head. I believe that is what killed him, not the fire.’