The Riddle of St Leonard's (31 page)

Lucie returned to the shop intending to speak with Jasper when they had a quiet moment. It was difficult working beside him, trying to hide her feelings. Suddenly Alice Baker rushed into the shop, pushed aside old Jake, who had been ahead of her, leaned on the counter.

‘Mistress Baker, I pray you, wait your turn,’ Lucie said, motioning to the elderly man to step back up to the counter.

Alice Baker grabbed Lucie’s hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed and frightened. ‘I beg you. My youngest, Elena, she coughs and coughs. Since this morning. It is the pestilence, I know. What can you give me to protect her?’

Old Jake needed to hear no more. He crossed himself and scuttled from the shop. The form of pestilence most quickly spread was the one that began and ended in a bloody cough.

‘Does she cough up blood?’ Lucie asked.

The frantic mother tightened her grip on Lucie’s hand. ‘Is that what is to come?’

‘Not necessarily, Mistress Baker. Now calm yourself. She is not coughing up blood?’

‘Nay.’

‘Is her nose running?’

‘And her eyes, too.’

‘It may not be the pestilence.’

‘She burns with fever.’

‘That does not mean pestilence.’ Lucie struggled to keep her voice even.

Jasper came from the workroom, where he had been refilling jars. ‘Brother Wulfstan might tell you quickly. Send one of your children to the abbey. They will know where he meant to go last. You might find him.’

Lucie touched Jasper’s hand. ‘No. Not today, Jasper. Pour Mistress Baker the cough syrup for children, and mix boneset and nettle to bring down the fever and dry the child’s chest so the cough will cease.’

Jasper gave Lucie a puzzled look, but moved to obey.

Alice Baker let go Lucie’s hand, pounded the counter. ‘That is not enough!’

‘That is the best I can do,’ Lucie said, rubbing her hand. She wanted to slap the woman. Day after day she came in with her theories and remedies, but now, when a child was actually ill, she was so ridiculously helpless. ‘If the child has pestilence, you have a house full of remedies, surely.’

The woman reared up. ‘But my Elena is dying!’

‘She is coughing. And if you give her the syrup and a heaping spoonful of the boneset and nettle in boiling water,’ Lucie picked up a spoon to show her the proper size, ‘Elena might quickly show improvement.’

‘And if it is pestilence?’

Lucie dropped her head, pressed her temples. Jasper handed the bottle and package to Alice Baker. ‘Bless you, my son,’ the woman murmured, tossed two groats on the counter and hurried from the shop.

Lucie sank down on the stool behind the counter and pressed her fingertips to her hot eyelids. She must not cry. It would make it worse for Jasper.

‘Mistress Lucie?’

She took a deep breath, raised her head, wiped her eyes. ‘I must tell you something, my love.’

‘It is Brother Wulfstan,’ Jasper guessed.

She took his hand, recounted all that Bess had told her. Tears glistened on the boy’s freckled cheeks. She touched them, pressed his hand. ‘We do not yet know that it is pestilence.’

‘How can it be otherwise? He has sat with so many of the dying, he has breathed their air, touched their bodies, their sweat, their—’ Jasper’s voice broke. He twisted out of Lucie’s grasp, strode across the shop to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ A silly question.

‘To see him,’ Jasper shouted as he stepped out into the street. ‘Do not try to stop me.’

Lucie wanted to run after him – not to stop him, but to join him. But he had not invited her. And she had the shop to watch.

Down Blake Street Jasper marched, hands pumping, teeth clenched. He was trying to keep himself angry. As long as he was angry about Brother Wulfstan’s illness he would not do something that might embarrass him. So to keep his mind on his anger he debated the target of his anger – God or Abbot Campian. He thought the abbot a good choice because he might have forbidden Brother Wulfstan’s sacrifice; he had the authority. But Jasper had learned enough about debating to know that a solid, unassailable argument must stand up to generalisation. This particular argument, extended, would have supported Mistress Lucie in using her authority over Jasper to order him to Freythorpe Hadden with the children. And prevent him from his present mission. God, on the other hand, had authority over everyone and had brought this curse on mankind. But it was dangerous and possibly sinful to be angry with God.

The debate delivered Jasper to the postern gate of St Mary’s Abbey still fuming. He rang the bell for the porter.

‘Jasper de Melton.
Benedicte
, my son,’ Brother William said, his fleshy face distorted in a frown that split his forehead in half with a deep groove. ‘You rang with such energy I feared the chain might not hold.’ He relaxed his face, but did not smile. ‘You have come to see Brother Wulfstan?’

Jasper nodded.

‘You may find it difficult to get past Brother Henry. But God has sent you here, I cannot turn you away. And I know that Brother Wulfstan would like to see you.’

Jasper’s anger had begun to dissolve with those kind words, and disappeared entirely as he ran through the abbey gardens, where memories rushed at him. By the time Jasper reached the infirmary, he had wiped his eyes on his sleeves several times.

When the door opened, Brother Henry looked in much the same state as Jasper. Only he had been wiping his eyes far longer, Jasper guessed.

Henry stuck his hands beneath his scapula and shook his head. ‘It is the pestilence, Jasper. I cannot in good conscience allow you within.’

‘If God has already chosen me, what can you do, Brother Henry?’ Jasper asked.

The subinfirmarian did not move. ‘You are apprenticed to an apothecary. Surely you do not believe we are to do naught to help ourselves?’

Jasper stood firm. ‘I must see him, Brother Henry. My mother did not keep me from my sister when she lay sick with it.’

‘And how might she have kept you separated? This is not your home. You have no need to be here.’

Jasper’s eyes prickled once more with tears. ‘I beg you, let me see him.’

‘Do not think me unfeeling, lad.’ Brother Henry touched a cloth to his nose. ‘Does Mistress Wilton know you are here?’

‘She does.’

‘And she did not try to prevent your coming?’

Jasper shook his head.

Henry opened the door and stood aside. ‘So be it. The odour will be unpleasant. I lanced a boil in his groin.’

The infirmary was dimly lit with oil lamps beside the beds of the ill. There were three patients present: Brother Jonas with an ulcerated sore on his foot; Brother Oswald, who was in the last stages of the Death, his breathing rattling deep in his chest; and Brother Wulfstan. Their beds were at far corners. As Jasper crossed the room, Brother Henry motioned to the novice who sat with Wulfstan to step aside. Jasper’s steps faltered as the odour of the pestilence grew stronger.

Wulfstan lay with his eyes closed, his hands folded on the coverlet in prayer. The skin on his face was like netting folded up; there was no flesh to smooth out the wrinkles. Jasper knelt beside Wulfstan’s bed, bowed his head, and whispered prayers. Soon he felt what seemed a feather on his head. Brother Wulfstan’s hand. The monk was gazing on him.

‘I am glad to see you, my son. But Lucie – does she know you are here?’ Wulfstan’s voice was but a whisper.

Jasper kissed the old monk’s hand. ‘She did not stop me.’

Wulfstan pulled his hand away. ‘Have a care.’ His eyes fluttered closed.

As Jasper waited for Wulfstan to make note of him again, he told him of his day, the remedies he had dispensed, how oddly Mistress Baker had behaved. He had no idea whether Wulfstan could hear and understand. It was not really for Wulfstan that he chattered on. It was for fear he would hear the death rattle in the old monk’s breast. Jasper had recounted his activities of the past three days before Wulfstan opened his eyes once more.

‘Has someone gone to John?’ Wulfstan asked in a voice ever weaker.

‘Who is this John?’ Jasper asked. ‘Was he in the house where you were taken ill?’ He knew Owen had gone there.

Brother Henry stepped closer. ‘Thus have I queried him also. Again and again he has mentioned John.’ He bent to Wulfstan, lifted his head and helped him drink. Little went down. His tongue was swollen.

‘Remember,’ Wulfstan whispered, his eyes on Henry as the monk lowered him and fussed with his pillows.

‘What must Brother Henry remember?’ Jasper asked, bending his head close to the old monk’s lips. ‘Tell me all you can, Brother Wulfstan.’

Wulfstan’s words were unconnected – the medicine bag, the attack, Spen Lane, lancing, growing too weak to shrive the man.

‘I must go to Captain Owen and tell him this,’ Jasper told Henry.

‘Have a care. And return in the morning, if you will.’

‘If he—’ Jasper took a deep breath, rushed the words, ‘I do not want to come back and find he has gone.’

‘I promise you I shall send word if he seems to be failing quickly.’

T
he Mawdeleyns lived near the King’s Fishpond. The muddy banks from which the water receded in high summer stank on hot, sunny days. Bess was thus delighted to be greeted with the scent of meadowsweet when the Mawdeleyn’s daughter opened the door to her. The pleasant scent grew stronger as Bess entered the house, crushing the herb beneath her feet.

Felice, her wimple and apron snowy white against her olive complexion and russet gown, rose from her spinning to greet Bess with a warm smile. She was a comely woman, graceful in her movements, even-featured, with perhaps more colour than men cared for – except her uncle. ‘I have expected this visit ever since your uncle died,’ Felice said when her daughter had withdrawn after carrying in a flagon of wine and two lovely Italian blue glass goblets.

Having prepared a speech that would draw Felice out, Bess found herself momentarily at a loss for words. And curious about the goblets. Were not the missing ones blue?

‘You have come about Julian, of course?’ Felice asked as she poured.

‘I have, Mistress Mawdeleyn, yes, I have. Forgive me. I did not think you would be so …’ She searched for the right word.

‘Shameless?’

‘Oh, dear me, no! I thought you would fear trouble if we spoke openly, is all.’

‘Trouble? Now he is dead? The trouble happened ten years ago.’

Ten years. An enduring affair. ‘Your husband knew?’

Felice blushed, but did not lower her eyes. ‘A husband knows when his wife has been bedded, Mistress Merchet. Unless he sleeps in another house and never gazes upon his wife.’ She stood up. ‘I will get his things.’

‘His things? What is this? Is that why you thought I came? To collect—’ Bess shook her head. ‘What things?’

‘His gifts to me.’ Felice lifted one of the Italian goblets. ‘These were part of a set. He gave the rest to St Leonard’s, but he said he wished to surround me with beautiful things.’

She and Honoria de Staines. Still, Bess had not known her uncle could be so tender. ‘And so they should remain. I did not come to rob you, Mistress Mawdeleyn, neither of your memories or your gifts. Whatever he gave you he meant for you to have. I came because I hoped you might help me. To be frank, Uncle Julian believed he had been poisoned.’

The generous lips rounded in surprise, the dark eyes seemed darker yet. Felice slipped back down in her chair with hand to throat. ‘Dear God.’

Bess believed the emotion to be sincere. ‘Forgive me for distressing you. But I hoped he might have confided in you.’

‘Confided?’

‘He spoke little of the past to me. I know of naught that might support his accusation. Do you know of any enemies he might have made?’

Felice lifted her cup to her lips daintily, then took a decidedly undainty drink, head tilted back. When she set down the goblet, Bess saw that it was empty. A clean linen cloth appeared from a sleeve to dab at the full lips. ‘Enemies. Blood enemies, for someone to poison him.’ Felice frowned up at the ceiling. ‘He once told me of something for which he had done penance for many years. But he begged me to keep my silence. Indeed, this spring he reminded me of the need to keep his secret.’

‘Surely now he’s dead …’

Felice considered her hands. She held them so a gold and silver ring caught the light. Undoubtedly another of Uncle Julian’s gifts. ‘If he was poisoned,’ Felice said, ‘I would have his murderer found and punished.’ She raised her head, her chin forward, her eyes sad. ‘In Scarborough, before the death of his wife and daughter, Julian was a smuggler.’

‘So I have heard. But it was more like he thieved from the smugglers.’

‘I am glad you knew that Julian was not always honest. I did not wish to be the one to tell you.’

‘But that was long ago. To what end would any of them come to York at this late date and murder him, as well as Laurence de Warrene and Walter de Hotter?’

‘I can think of no cause. And I know nothing of Master Hotter. Julian never spoke of him. I do know that Julian and Laurence de Warrene worked with others from time to time. One in particular was someone who had knowledge of the families from whom they stole. Adam Carter. And it was his death for which your uncle did penance for many, many years. He believed that his own wife and child died for his sins.’