The Guilt of Innocents, page 5
‘He tried to protect his face,’ Owen noted.
Henry nodded. ‘That is what I thought. The slits must have stung, but I wouldn’t think they were terribly painful. I suppose that’s why he went to the barges and not home to clean the wounds. What do you think?’
‘I think his attacker was confident of the poison. Depending on what it was, Drogo might have sought relief in the river as the pain worsened.’
‘May God grant him peace,’ said Henry.
Owen released Drogo’s hand. He crossed himself and said a prayer for the pilot’s soul. ‘Did you know him?’
Henry muted a sneeze with his hand. ‘A little. I’d spoken to him at the staithe now and then. He seemed a quiet man, though I heard murmurs tonight that he was too ready with his fists when drunk.’
‘That is not an unusual trait in our fellow men.’ Owen noticed lines of weariness encircling the infirmarian’s eyes and mouth despite his youth. ‘You found no other marks on his body?’
‘This bruise.’ Henry touched a faint discolouration high on the man’s left arm. ‘I thought it might be where his rescuer clutched him.’
It was the size of a man’s hand. ‘You may be right. Anything else?’
Henry shook his head as he tried to cover a yawn, but his exhaustion won.
Owen empathised. ‘You are already weary, and I expect you have a long evening ahead of you. I’ll not keep you long. Have you had much illness here?’
Henry shook his head as he tucked his hands in the opposite sleeves and moved away from Drogo. ‘I made a nettle draught for myself yesterday that was far too strong, and then I could not sleep.’
‘Ah, the healer has no time to be ill.’ Lucie often pushed herself far past signs of exhaustion.
‘I don’t think of it as illness,’ said Henry. ‘My sneezing upset my patients. I am accustomed to fits of sneezing after mixing some powders. The nettle quiets it. But I was distracted while measuring the draught. Brother Paolo was…’ His voice trailed off and he frowned down at his sandals. ‘He’s grown wicked in his illness.’ Glancing up at Owen, Henry blushed.
Owen tried to erase his grin. ‘Pleasuring himself?’
‘How did you guess?’ asked Henry as he averted his eyes.
Owen found it difficult not to laugh outright, imagining the monk distracted by a vigorously fluttering blanket, or startled by the old monk crying out in pleasure. ‘I’ve seen it in the camps, men comforting themselves, taking heart from a healthy response.’ Owen shrugged. ‘Of course it is more appropriate for soldiers than for monks.’
‘It is a sin regardless,’ Henry said sternly, his face very red.
Owen had forgotten Henry’s primness. ‘I pray you forgive me, Brother Henry. I should not have spoken so boldly.’ He searched for another topic, having no cause to offend the monk. ‘Warn those keeping vigil with the body that Drogo’s murderer is abroad. I am most concerned about his family, if he had one.’
Henry quickly regained his composure. ‘He had a wife and two daughters, I believe. They are waiting in the chapel with several of our brothers. I must get word to them of his death.’ He crossed himself. ‘I shall warn the others of the danger. Did you hear about Master Nicholas Ferriby being accused of the murder even before Drogo died?’
Owen nodded. ‘Jasper told me. Indeed, Master Nicholas accosted me outside your door. He fears for his life. The man’s death will be a blow to him.’
‘It was his misfortune to approach Drogo when he did, and someone saw a chance to stir them to violence. They will forget him tomorrow.’
‘You will offer him a bed for the night?’
‘I would have thought he’d bide with his brother William, but I suppose they are at odds. Abbot Campian suggested that he take refuge here, so I’ve no doubt he is arranging a bed for him. I would guess he’ll be off to Weston as soon as he’s able.’
‘That depends on whether he’s willing to repay the parents of his scholars. They have already paid a year’s fee.’ Owen had for Alisoun.
‘I’d not considered that,’ said Henry.
‘Before I go home to my dinner I must talk to the lads biding in the Clee.’
‘May God watch over you, Captain,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to meet the person who so subtly murdered the steersman.’
‘Keep me in your prayers, Brother Henry.’
Hempe waited without. ‘How is he?’
Owen shook his head, then crossed himself. ‘Dead of poison on the blade that cut him.’
Hempe cursed. ‘I spoke to one man who’d seen Drogo running from a tavern in Petergate late this afternoon. I’ll see what I can learn there. Let us meet in the York Tavern.’
Owen agreed, then headed out the abbey gate towards the Clee, where he was quite sure Master John, the schoolmaster of St Peters, would be with his scholars.
Light shone from the chinks in every shutter of the Clee, and spilled out as Dame Agnes opened the door to Owen’s knock, her snowy white cap glowing in the brightness. Young voices also spilled out into the night, as well as thuds and a dog barking. Dame Agnes, a pretty woman with a pious devotion to her charges, beamed at Owen.
‘Captain Archer, praise God that you are here. Several of my boys are eager to tell someone all they noticed at the barges today. I am so grateful it is you who is come to talk to them. You understand boys.’
She was also talkative. But he was heartened by her greeting.
‘Is there someplace I might talk to them one at a time, beginning with the older scholars?’ he asked. ‘After I’ve spoken to Master John and you.’
She smiled. ‘And how did you guess that Master John would be here?’
‘He would not leave the lads until he was certain they were all calmed,’ said Owen.
‘You know him well. These boys are blessed in their schoolmaster.’
‘And their matron,’ he added, falling into her rhythm.
As they spoke he’d noticed the youngest scholars joining her, crowding around her. Now she glanced around (for they were not much shorter than she was) and exclaimed, ‘Oh my boys, Captain Archer is going to help us discover the truth of what happened to the pilot this afternoon.’ Her expression, when she raised her eyes to Owen’s once more, was dramatically changed. ‘We must learn the truth.’ There was fear in her eyes, fear for her lads. She understood this was no mere schoolboys’ tussle.
Owen was never confident that he would learn the truth. He knew full well that the truth was not always in the best interests of the powerful, and they could, and often did, control the outcome of his investigation. But looking at the trusting faces lifted to his he prayed that he was able to resolve this in a manner that would restore a sense of safe order to the lads.
Dame Agnes asked the boys to fetch one of the servants and ask Master John to attend her.
The schoolmaster was the first to appear, dividing the pulsing crowd of boys as Moses had the waters of the Red Sea. ‘Archer!’ he boomed. With his deep, strong baritone and his animated yet kindly face he seemed born to his calling. ‘So His Grace the Archbishop has taken an interest in our tragedy?’
‘I am not here at his request,’ said Owen. ‘But I’ve no doubt he will wish to have this resolved.’
‘He’s taken precious little interest in Chancellor Thomas’s concern about Nicholas Ferriby’s school,’ said Dame Agnes with a sniff.
‘Because it is a needless concern,’ said John in the tone of one tired of repeating himself, ‘and absurd to threaten him with excommunication. I agree with His Grace on that. Ferriby’s scholars have no hope of entering St Peter’s.’ His smile was affectionate.
Dame Agnes hesitated with a little frown, but then bobbed her head at a servant who had just joined them. He was out of breath and smelled of onions. ‘Watch the lads while we retire to my chamber, Stephen.’
The servant grinned and thanked her. Owen guessed he was relieved to have a reprieve from chopping onions.
Agnes’s chamber was a screened-off corner of the hall, large enough for a small bed, a table, a few stools, and a large trunk. She settled on the bed and gestured to them to take the stools.
‘I hoped you might tell me what the lads have said about their part in Drogo’s death,’ said Owen.
‘Death?’ Agnes whispered, looking over at Master John.
‘God grant him peace,’ said the schoolmaster, his face grave. ‘This is terrible news, Captain, and all the worse for my scholars’ part in the bumping and jostling that might have caused his fall. But how did he die? I understood his fellows quickly pulled him from the water.’
‘The blood, Master John,’ Dame Agnes murmured.
John lifted his eyes to Owen. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that. What really did happen today?’
‘That is what I seek to discover,’ said Owen. ‘Why do you suppose your lads did not seek your help in retrieving young Hubert’s scrip?’
A fond smile broke through the concern. ‘Their sense of adventure, Captain. The older ones love to lead.’
‘They should know better than to engage the bargemen. What is innocent fun to the lads is threatening to the bargemen’s livelihood. I’ve explained that to Jasper many times, but he was there this evening despite my warnings, and despite promising he’d not go to the staithe.’
‘He was not there long, I assure you. He’d stayed behind to copy a passage.’
‘But he did go.’
‘And this time it was not a game with the lads. They did find the scrip, but it was empty.’
‘They did retrieve it?’ Owen had not heard this. ‘How?’
‘When Geoffrey, one of the older scholars, demanded it, Drogo tossed the little purse to him, just like that, and then moved deeper into the crowd.’
‘I would talk to Geoffrey,’ said Owen, glancing at Dame Agnes.
She was quick to understand. ‘I’ll fetch him at once.’ She slipped away.
‘But it was empty, you said.’ Owen thought about how the lad might have responded to that. ‘Did he charge after Drogo when he found it empty?’
‘I don’t think he realised at once that there was nothing in it,’ said Master John.
‘Where is the scrip now?’
The grammar master produced it. It was the size of Owen’s hand, clearly a woman’s scrip, and the pouch was indeed empty. ‘Keep it safe,’ he warned. ‘We may need it.’
The grammar master nodded uneasily.
‘What else have you heard from the lads?’ Owen asked.
‘I heard about the poor man’s bleeding face, and about Nicholas Ferriby fleeing into the abbey grounds in fear of his life.’ Master John shook his head. ‘Foolish man. He is such a foolish man.’
‘The crowd was angry, or so I am told,’ Owen reminded him.
‘Yes, yes, they do say so.’ Master John nodded as he lowered his gaze to the unremarkable floor. ‘Yes.’
‘Abbot Campian advised him to retreat into the abbey.’ Owen wondered whether John’s earlier claim of indifference about Nicholas Ferriby’s school might have been an attempt to deflect questions about the conflict. ‘It is natural that you would resent Nicholas for threatening your income.’
John gave an elaborate shrug. ‘The status and funding of St Peter’s School are Chancellor Thomas Farnilaw’s responsibilities. I am merely the schoolmaster. I’ve no cause to resent Master Nicholas. I am glad that Abbot Campian is giving him sanctuary.’
Owen believed John did resent Nicholas, but that his feelings embarrassed him, being of a mercenary nature.
Dame Agnes had returned with a tall, well-built older scholar with a man’s stubble on his chin and a sullen set to his mouth. ‘This is Geoffrey Townley, Captain,’ she said. ‘Geoffrey, this is Captain Archer, who wishes to ask you about what happened on the barges.’
‘I did not push him into the river,’ said Geoffrey in a wounded tone.
‘That is a good start,’ said Owen. ‘I understand you saw Drogo. Can you tell me all that happened? All that you noticed about him?’
The young man still looked uncertain. ‘You’re not accusing me?’
‘No. I’m asking for your help.’
Geoffrey seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. ‘I am sorry I spoke to you so, Captain.’ By his blush Owen understood that he’d been frightened, which was hardly surprising. The young man repeated what Master John had already told Owen about Drogo tossing the scrip to him, but with an additional piece of information. ‘He smelled of ale, Captain, and I thought he was drunk, the way he moved, like he had to think about lifting his hand and turning his head. But when he bled in front of the Virgin I understood that he’d been injured.’
Ale. He hoped Hempe learned something at the tavern. ‘Did you see him go into the water?’ Owen asked.
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The crowd was thick round him. I feared the barges would start taking on water.’
‘When did you realise the scrip was empty?’
‘The lads crowded round me while we waited for Drogo to be pulled from the river. They asked me to look inside.’ Geoffrey paused, shifting a little, shrugging. ‘I wasn’t going to look, thinking it wasn’t right without Hubert there. But I thought I might feel around, see what I could learn from it, and I felt just the leather. Then I looked, and my fingers had been right. I was holding just the scrip, nothing in it.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Tricked. Cheated. So were we all. But I don’t understand. Why return it if it was empty?’ Geoffrey nodded as Owen was about to speak. ‘I know, he satisfied me and was able to get away, but he did growl something about returning it to Hubert.’
So he’d mentioned the boy by name. Owen wondered whether Drogo had known him or had learned the lad’s name after he’d taken the scrip. ‘Even if you’d looked right away, it sounds as if he quickly disappeared.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘He did. He was very fast.’ The sullen expression had softened into disappointment. ‘When I realised he’d tricked me I was glad he’d fallen into the river.’
‘Geoffrey!’ Dame Agnes need say no more, all the shock and disapproval clear in her tone.
The young man crossed himself. ‘I didn’t feel that for long. I was just angry.’
‘I would have been angry to find I was holding an empty scrip,’ said Owen. ‘Did anyone else catch your eye? Odd behaviour? Someone out of place?’
Geoffrey shook his head.
‘Do you know who Master Nicholas is?’
‘Who? Oh, yes. He was blamed for Drogo’s wounds.’
‘Did you see him on the barges? Take a moment to think back. They sound as if they were crowded.’
The young man lifted his gaze to the ceiling, frowning as he thought, and finally shaking his head as he lowered his gaze to Owen once more. ‘No. Do you think it was Master Nicholas who was drinking with Drogo?’
‘I doubt it, though I can’t say why. If you hear anything or remember anything else that you think might be of use, I need to know.’ Owen was about to give him leave to go, but thought of one more question. ‘Were you at the abbey gate when Drogo bled?’
‘I was, Captain.’
‘Did you see Master Nicholas approach him?’
‘I did.’ Geoffrey frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Did he carry a weapon?’
‘Not that I could see.’
‘Did he try to sneak up to Drogo?’
Geoffrey shook his head.
‘Did he seem worried? Frightened?’
‘No, Captain.’
‘I am grateful, Geoffrey. And—you might tell the other lads what I’ve asked. I would like to hear from anyone with anything to add.’
Geoffrey nodded and hastened out.
Hempe awaited Owen at the York Tavern, thoughtfully staring at the ceiling beam, a tankard of ale firmly in hand. As Owen greeted him he seemed to remember that he was cross, and pulled his brows together.
‘He’d been in the tavern, a cloaked man entered, said something and left, and then Drogo left.’ Hempe shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Precious little in that.’
‘No one recognised the man?’
‘Cloaked and hooded.’ Hempe snorted and shook his head. ‘It could not be much more useless, could it?’
‘So it might have been a priest?’
‘I suppose it might have been a woman for all they could tell.’ Hempe cursed under his breath.
‘You are so caught up in this?’ Owen asked, curious about this man who was becoming a friend.
‘I don’t like the smell of it,’ said Hempe. ‘What did you learn?’
Owen filled him in, by which time Hempe thought he ought to head home.
‘Being raised to a bailiff of the city has been a mixed blessing for my trade.’ Hempe was a mercer. ‘I have more business, but I’m far less efficient.’
‘You’re likely to hold public office for the rest of your life,’ said Owen. ‘You’re a worthy man, and it’s noticed.’
Hempe grumbled something as he departed, but it was plain he appreciated the compliment.
He was no sooner out the door than Bess Merchet joined Owen. She did not like to be seen socialising with the city officers—it made some customers uncomfortable. Over an ale she recounted for Owen her conversation with the two bargemen.
‘Already bleeding when he arrived,’ Owen said, realising Brother Henry might have been right about the attack happening elsewhere. ‘What else?’
Bess told him how, to her thinking, Hubert’s carrying the scrip about with him was unusual.
‘I’d not considered that,’ Owen admitted, as much to himself as to her. He would ask Jasper what he thought of that. ‘Did the one who suggested someone having cause to be after the bargemen say why he thought that might be?’
‘That was Hal who suggested it,’ said Bess, glancing towards the corner of the room. ‘I did not ask, Bart was so certain it was about the lad’s scrip.’
Owen followed her gaze, but saw only a pair of travellers and a young man in a goldsmith’s livery in the corner. ‘Are they still here?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Hal honoured my request to take Bart away before he grew restless. I could find out where they bide.’
