The Riddle of St Leonard's (20 page)

‘God bless you, Brother Wulfstan.’

The old monk turned down the alley that led to Holy Trinity, Goodramgate.

‘God go with you, Brother Wulfstan,’ a nasal voice called in the dimness beneath the overhanging houses.

Wulfstan halted, squinted into the shadows. ‘God go with you. Are you in need?’

A man limped out into the poor light. ‘I am injured.’

An injury was a welcome change from plague sores. ‘Come. Let us go forward into the churchyard. The light will allow these old eyes to examine your injury.’

They walked down the alley into the open yard.

‘Feel the heat of this,’ the man said, guiding Wulfstan’s hand to a wound in his upper arm.

Wulfstan set his bag of medicines and bandages down, felt at the wound. ‘Your sleeve prevents my examination.’ There was but a small tear in the sleeve over the injury. ‘Come with me to St Mary’s. There I can remove your gown, clean the wound and bandage it.’

The man shook his head.

Wulfstan noted that the man’s gown smelled strongly of horse sweat. He glanced up at the man’s face, could match no name to it. ‘You are a stranger in York?’

‘Aye. I was attacked on the road.’

‘How do you come to know my name?’

‘I heard it spoken as you came out into the street.’

That might be so. ‘Why did you not go to St Mary’s?’

One question too many. The man lunged for Wulfstan’s bag of medicines and bandages. The old monk grabbed it, a foolish gesture. A yank and a push and he was on the ground clutching air. By the time Wulfstan struggled to his knees, he could see no sign of his attacker. Merciful God he was dizzy. And his heart pounded so. He dropped his head to his hands and knelt there quietly for a few moments until his heart slowed and he thought he might trust his balance enough to rise and walk. He felt a fool.

Once more the morning had been quiet in the shop. Lucie was about to send Jasper off to work in the garden when a form darkened the doorway. He was stooped with age, unsteady on his feet. Lucie did not at once recognise the infirmarian of St Mary’s, but Jasper dropped the powder he was measuring back into the jar and hurried to assist Brother Wulfstan to a seat.

‘Find the brandywine in the back room,’ Lucie ordered Jasper as she knelt to her old friend and dabbed at the scrapes on his cheek and forehead. ‘Did you take a fall?’

‘I did. And lost my bag.’

‘When you have had some brandywine you must tell Jasper where you dropped it.’

‘And then I shall help you back to the abbey,’ Jasper said as he handed Wulfstan a cup of brandywine.

Wulfstan’s hands shook too badly to hold it. As Lucie helped him lift the cup to his lips, she noticed blood on his left hand. ‘You thought to catch your fall?’

Wulfstan said nothing, just drank.

Lucie wanted to weep, seeing him so weak. He asked too much of himself. Surely God did not require such sacrifice from a man who had spent his life helping others. When she lowered the cup from his lips, Wulfstan closed his eyes and smiled faintly.

‘Better. I pray you, do not fuss. I would sit here and collect my wits is all. Brother Henry must not see me like this.’

‘You must rest,’ Lucie said. ‘Let us help you to the pallet in the workroom.’

R
avenser sat with elbows on the arms of his chair, hands steepled before his chest. So like his uncle, Owen thought. A deceptive likeness, for he found himself responding to the man as if he were Thoresby and then receiving an unexpected reaction. Ravenser was subtly different from his uncle. At the moment he was politely disagreeing with Owen.

‘You waste your time trying to connect the thefts with the deaths of Hotter, Warrene and Taverner.’

Ravenser’s uncle would have given it some thought.

‘So much trouble erupting independently seems too much of a coincidence, Sir Richard. Not that I am at all certain one follows from the other, or which came first, or why. But so much trouble in so short a time in one establishment …’

A tilt of the head, a nod, as if seeing the point at last. Then a sharper nod. A decision. ‘I trust you, Captain. I shall try to stay out of your way. You are most welcome, I assure you. But then I asked for your assistance, you know. His Grace was not keen when I approached him. He had other plans for you.’

So it was true. Ravenser had requested his help. Still, ‘His Grace takes great pleasure in ordering my life.’

Ravenser gave a surprised laugh. ‘You—’ He shook his head. ‘I am not accustomed to hearing my uncle spoken of in such a way.’

‘I meant no disrespect. He is a great man.’

‘But difficult when in a foul temper. Which he is of late.’

‘He tells me the Queen is failing.’

Ravenser bowed his head. ‘The realm will be the worse for the loss of Queen Phillippa.’

‘His Grace particularly.’

‘And adding gall to his wound, Mistress Alice Perrers gave birth to a daughter.’

‘Has our King sired another bastard?’

‘Perhaps not. Much is made of the fact that she is christened Blanche. They are quite certain she was named for the fair Blanche of Lancaster.’ John of Gaunt’s beloved wife had died the previous autumn. ‘And if so, why? Might Lancaster be the father?’

Owen grinned. ‘Mistress Perrers has a taste for power.’

Ravenser did not smile. ‘And Lancaster a taste for beautiful women. I think it unlikely he would bed Perrers.’

‘But His Grace thinks it possible?’ Owen did. He thought there were few women in the kingdom who wove a more attractive web than Alice Perrers.

‘He thinks it possible indeed. And he is furious. He hoped to enlist the duke’s aid in ridding court of Perrers …’

‘I should think that with Death reaching out for the Queen, the King would depend on Mistress Perrers more than ever.’

Ravenser massaged his temples. ‘God might do better purging court than purging the city of York. Such petty jealousies.’

So he did not approve of Thoresby’s interest in the matter. Owen thought it time to return to the matter at hand. ‘How many know that I am assisting you in this?’

‘Don Cuthbert, the cellarer. Have you been introduced?’

‘We have met.’

Ravenser winced. ‘He is a good man, I assure you, and he has agreed to assist you in any way you request. Within the rule of the hospital, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don Erkenwald also knows. In fact it was he who alerted me to the problems.’

‘He is a good man. So they are the only ones who know my purpose here?’

A sigh. ‘And without the hospital, Mistress Merchet. I thought to reassure her that I did not disregard her uncle’s claim that he was poisoned.’

‘An appropriate gesture. Just the three, yourself and me, then?’

‘Yes. And I should prefer to keep it from the others.’

Was the man a simpleton? ‘I do not see how, Sir Richard. They will notice that I am about. Secrecy will make my task doubly hard.’ He could see that Ravenser did not consider it his problem but Owen’s. In that he was like his uncle.

‘Perhaps if you spoke only of the thefts,’ Ravenser suggested.

‘And when I ask whether anyone remembers anything out of joint the day of the fire? Or whether Walter de Hotter argued with someone?’

Ravenser drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair as he considered that. ‘Might we invent more thefts? Something missing from Laurence de Warrene’s house? And something from Hotter’s?’

‘I do not advise a lie. Besides, there is the matter of Warrene’s house being so thoroughly burned.’

Ravenser flushed, but attempted to hide his embarrassment with a brusque tone. ‘I understand you spoke to Mistress Staines.’

Owen had wondered why Ravenser did not mention her. ‘I did. And I am curious. Why confine her at night, but let her go about freely during the day?’

‘I thought we might learn something by watching her – where she goes, to whom she speaks.’

‘And if she is dangerous?’

‘She cannot leave the hospital.’

‘Some have died within St Leonard’s, Sir Richard.’

A sharp intake of breath. ‘I am aware of that, Captain. But neither you nor I believe Mistress Staines is a murderer, do we? She covets her neighbours’ riches. How does she explain the goblets?’

‘She says Julian Taverner presented them to her at her wedding four years ago. But he was dead before I could ask him whether she spoke the truth.’

‘Why would she hide them if they were hers?’

‘She says she heard about the missing goblets and feared she would not be believed. Dame Constance, for one, thinks Mistress Staines quite cunning.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Have you learned aught by watching her movements these past days?’

‘As far as I know, no. Would you have me release her?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Ah.’ Ravenser nodded. ‘Good. As I said, I shall retreat into the shadows and allow you to proceed as you see fit. But I pray you, resolve this quickly and with as little information reaching the city as possible, or St Leonard’s reputation may be destroyed. And without the goodwill of the people …’

‘I have not yet begun and you are urging me to finish, Sir Richard? Then I ask you to pray for me.’

‘I express myself awkwardly. But I think it advisable to be frank with you. It is an honour to be master of this hospital. Are you aware that it is the largest such institution in this realm outside London?’

‘I have heard that claim.’

Ravenser drew himself up. ‘It is not an idle claim. It is true. And to be the master of such a hospital, which gives solace to the ill, the elderly, the abandoned … I doubt that I need tell you that it lends a man a certain respectability. But where there is much to gain there is also much to lose. Were the hospital to fail …’ Ravenser turned to the window and allowed silence to emphasise his last words.

Owen considered the man, trying to decide why he wished it were Thoresby sitting in that chair, not Ravenser. Perhaps it was because he sensed a secretiveness in Ravenser with which Thoresby did not bother. Even with his blunt acknowledgement of his ambitious motive in saving the hospital, the man still hid much.

He also exaggerated.

‘Why should the hospital fail because of the thefts and, related or not, the odd deaths of several corrodians, Sir Richard?’

Ravenser reached for his cup of wine, sipped while studying Owen over the rim. A trick of his uncle’s. Had he studied his uncle’s techniques? ‘Debt, Captain. And debt requires donors. I had been promised the receipts from the Lammas Fair this summer, but alas …’ Ravenser set the cup down, leaned forward. ‘Don Cuthbert has insulted the goldsmiths, a guild from whom I might have hoped for generous gifts; rumours are rampant in the city, which destroys my chances with other wealthy citizens; the late mayor and I quarrelled and the present mayor seems to know something of it. If this continues, we shall be ruined. It is that simple.’

‘What of the possibility that there is a murderer in your midst? Does that not worry you at all?’

Journeys were seldom direct for the Riverwoman. Folk passing would mention a sick friend, a peculiar plant growing in the wood or on the riverbank, an animal lying injured on a track, and she would reorganise her day. Those awaiting her call knew not to expect her at a particular time, but they also knew that she would come, even if it were long after sunset. It was said she had better night vision than a cat.

It was mid-afternoon before Magda led the nag up the track to the Ffulford farm. She had no reason to expect the child to be there except that it felt right. Time enough to move on to Alisoun’s kin if the farm was deserted. Magda tethered the nag to a branch out of sight of the barn, a nice grassy spot to entice her into quietly grazing. Then the midwife moved up the track on foot.

All was still. But someone watched her, she was certain. As she meandered round the yard, checking sheds and circling the barn and the house, she glanced at the area from which she sensed the eyes. A dark shadow against the trunk of an oak satisfied her. The child hid in the tree, observing Magda’s exploration. It was not a tree from which Alisoun might glimpse the horse.

On her next circuit, Magda entered the house, checked that the child yet had food, admired Alisoun’s cleverness. She came for the food stored within, but walked in the shadows so that the floor looked dusty, the house uninhabited.

Outside, Magda made her way to the barn, struggled with the door, opening it wide. Inside, she examined the hay, thought to pull some fresh hay down for the nag, but, remembering the child’s defence of the loft, changed her mind. The child might be clever enough to fashion a trap. Magda had no time for that.

Satisfied that the child was present, and well enough to feed herself and keep her wits about her, Magda retrieved the nag, led her into her stall in the barn. Emerging into the bright sunshine, Magda sighed. It had been pleasant, having a mount for a day. But the gods had given her feet for a purpose.