The Cross Legged Knight (13 page)

The young man glanced behind him, his heading sinking down between his shoulders. ‘He will want to know the matter of your visit.’

‘I doubt he will ask,’ said Owen.

‘It is the mistress?’

‘Aye, it is.’ The apprentice would know soon enough.

‘Mother in heaven.’ The young man crossed himself. ‘I feared that when he came back with such a face on him. Was it the fire?’

Owen nodded.

‘Now go, tell your master we wait without,’ Hempe said. His deep voice and hawklike appearance lent the slender man an authority that humbled the apprentice.

Shrinking, the young man made his way to the door, opened it and closed it quietly behind him.

Hempe picked up a shoe, turned it over. ‘Pity the guilds go after Eudo as they do – this is good workmanship, better than many a cordwainer in this city.’ He leaned back, nodded to Owen. ‘What exactly are you about, Captain, taking in the servant, bringing word to the family, which I assume you mean to do here? You are the archbishop’s man. The fire occurred outside the minster liberty. This is the city’s concern.’

That was true. In following Thoresby’s orders Owen was encroaching in the city bailiffs’ territory. ‘Mistress Cisotta died at the house of the Bishop of Winchester,’ Owen reminded him.

‘It does not matter. She lived and died in the city.’

‘It matters to Archbishop Thoresby and to Bishop Wykeham.’

‘They have no say in this.’

‘I suspect His Grace has already sent word to the sheriff, the mayor and the council with Bishop Wykeham’s request for this to be kept a Church affair.’

‘A Church affair? Not by any stretch of …’ Hempe stopped as the door opened and the apprentice slipped back in.

He shook his head at the two of them. ‘The air is foul in there. But my master bids you enter. He says he is eager to speak with you.’

Owen followed the bailiff into a long, squat hall with a meagre and very smoky fire in the centre, a few oil lamps sputtering.

‘Smells like all houses with young children,’ Hempe said beneath his breath.

Eudo stood near the fire, holding a squirming, whining young boy out in front of him while Goodwife Claire, a neighbour, spread ointment on the lad’s bare bottom. Eudo’s eight-year-old daughter, Anna, left her place by the largest piece of furniture in the room, a dresser full of jars and bottles of Cisotta’s potions, and crossed over to Owen and Hempe. She was small for her age, with little flesh on her tiny bones. But she comported herself with a mature solemnity, greeting the two men with courtesy and offering them ale.

Owen declined. Eudo might be quietly assisting his neighbour at present, but Owen had heard him earlier and knew he and Hempe were about to deal with a man
at the end of his tether. Hempe was apparently of like mind.

The woman had taken the boy and carried him to a box bed in the far corner. He was quieter now, his cries softened to an occasional whimper. Eudo strode towards the guests, wiping his hands on his alum-stained leather leggings. He was dressed to work in the shop – Owen guessed he had never undressed last night. A squat man with a much creased and jowly face, ever scowling, Eudo was as homely as his wife had been beautiful, and at least two score years older than she had been.

‘I want some answers, men. Are you here to give them?’ Eudo pulled up a stool and straddled it, gesturing to them to find themselves something to sit on.

Anna approached, reaching out as if willing a bench to move towards them. Owen met her halfway and suggested she go to sit with her brothers while he and the bailiff talked to her father.

‘When will they bring Ma’s body home, Captain?’ Anna asked.

So they knew. Owen crouched down and took her little hand in his. It was rough for the hand of so young a child. ‘You cannot have your mother’s body here, not with your brother so ill. She is being taken to St Sampson’s. Father John will have parish women prepare her. But you will have your say in that, to be certain.’

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, but her tears were coming steadily.

‘Anna!’ Eudo shouted. ‘Do as the captain said. Go and sit with your brothers, make sure they mind Goodwife Claire.’

Owen watched as the girl began to disobey, opening her mouth to ask yet another question. He was glad of
Eudo’s interference – he would find it difficult to lie to such a solemn child, and he was certain she wished to ask how her mother had looked, whether she had suffered.

‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘The little ones need you.’ Owen’s knees ached as he rose, and his head pounded from the lack of fresh air and the reek of the child’s sickness as well as the odours of Eudo’s business. He noted that Eudo grew angry under Hempe’s questioning. The bailiff’s presence was most unfortunate.

‘Can you tell us how your wife came to be at the Fitzbaldrics’ house?’ Hempe was asking.

Eudo had been sitting, one elbow on his knee, but with the question he shot up straight as a post. ‘That is what you two were to tell me.’

Owen settled back on the bench beside the bailiff, picked up a child’s top that lay at his feet.

‘Where did she say she would be?’ Hempe asked.

‘She told me nothing. It is Anna she would have told, but…’ Eudo stopped, mouth open, and shook himself as if waking himself up. ‘I said such things to the children in anger last night while Cisotta lay in the burning house giving up her spirit. May God smite me.’ He beat his chest and began to sob.

‘We shall get little out of him today,’ Hempe muttered.

Eudo might have been more forthcoming had the bailiff a less confrontational approach, Owen thought. He needed to distance himself from the man.

‘What of the girl?’ Hempe asked, beginning to rise.

‘Let me speak with her,’ Owen said. ‘You might stay with Eudo in case he says anything of import.’

Anna had curled up on the box bed beside her little brother. The other two boys huddled together on the floor by her, watching Owen approach.

Crouching again, Owen placed a hand gently on the shoulders of the two boys. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, lads. Your ma was a good friend.’

The boys twisted round to see Anna’s response. She nodded to them. ‘He is the husband of Mistress Wilton, the apothecary.’ She met Owen’s eye. ‘I heard what you asked. Ma said she was to see someone, but she would be back early. She was worried about little Will. His stomach was already gripping him.’

Goodwife Claire cleared her throat to remind them she was close at hand, rinsing out rags in a pot over the fire. Owen straightened his aching knees and perched at the edge of the bed, facing the neighbour.

‘There was a man waiting by the back door the other day,’ the goodwife said. ‘I did not know him. Dark hair, dressed well, but plainly.’

‘I remember him,’ said Anna. ‘He was here when Ma and I came home. He frightened me. Ma told me to go inside.’ Her eyes were swimming with tears.

Owen just nodded and gave Anna the linen cloth he carried in his scrip to dab at her eyes. Then he withdrew from the children, gesturing to the goodwife to follow him. ‘How old was this man?’

‘Her age, Cisotta’s, I would say.’ The goodwife searched his face. ‘Is this important?’

‘It might be. What else can you tell me about this meeting?’

‘Sadly, I can tell you no more. I did not watch after that. I do not wish to know too much.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She was a beautiful woman, Captain, in an unhappy marriage.’

‘Are you certain of that last part?’

She regarded him. ‘I heard Cisotta and Eudo quarrelling most evenings.’

‘You’re certain you had never seen this man before?’

The goodwife nodded.

‘I am grateful for your sharp eyes. Can you stay a while for the children?’

‘As long as they need me, Captain.’

Owen returned to Eudo, who was still weeping. He hesitated for a moment before drawing the belt from his scrip and asking the tawyer whether he could identify it. He did not explain its significance.

Eudo raised his head, gazed on the belt for a good long moment, reached out, drew it through his rough, tanned hands, looked up at Owen as he felt the burned edges. ‘This was found at the bishop’s house?’ His voice was hoarse, tremulous.

‘Aye. Found in the undercroft, where the fire began. As you are a tawyer, I thought you might recognize the workmanship.’

Eudo wiped his eyes on his sleeves, heaved a shuddering sigh, studied the belt. ‘Nay. If I worked on such fine cordovan I would have a team of apprentices, not one.’

Owen had not noticed the quality of the leather, stained as it was and partially charred. ‘What else can you tell me about it?’

‘The buckle is good brass. The strap is narrow. A boy’s belt, I would say.’

‘So this would cost dear.’

Eudo nodded.

Owen put the belt aside. ‘How did you know to go to the Dale house?’

‘I went out for more ale, heard the gossip. Later, towards morning, I thought it could be …’ He turned away, a hand to his eyes.

‘Now I must ask you something far more difficult. I promise I’ll then leave you in peace.’

‘What peace can I have?’

Owen held out the ruined girdle. ‘Was this Mistress Cisotta’s?’

The tawyer’s heart-rending sob was answer enough.

‘Forgive me.’ Owen rose as he placed the items in his scrip. It was time to leave. He did not like the bailiff’s expression. If they were to argue, he wished to do it out on the street, not in this house of mourning.

In the shop, the apprentice sat slumped forward, his head on the pillow of his forearms. They left without disturbing him. Expecting Hempe to continue the argument, Owen headed towards the yard of St Sampson Church, where they might not be overheard. He sensed Hempe’s hot breath on the back of his neck as he passed gossiping townsfolk who watched him with interest. Stepping out of the street, Owen felt an unfriendly hand on his shoulder and instinctively swung round. ‘Never grab a soldier like that,’ he said.

‘The archbishop will hear from the council.’

Owen drew closer to Hempe, speaking as softly as possible. The churchyard was not as deserted as he had hoped and the bailiff’s behaviour already drew curious eyes. ‘The bishop was lately one of the king’s chief counsellors. He has many dangerous enemies. What seems the city’s concern may prove to be the realm’s concern.’

‘You have planned this from the beginning. That belt you showed him – what part did it play in last night’s tragedy?’

It was true that Hempe had the right to know, but Owen was not about to discuss the crime in public. ‘I did not say that it played any part. I found it near his wife’s body.’

Even as he spoke, Owen was looking about, noticing a ripple of excitement passing through the crowd.
Down Girdlergate came a small procession, Father John of St Sampson’s leading four men carrying the plank on which Cisotta’s shrouded corpse lay.

‘I don’t believe you,’ the bailiff said.

‘Come to the archbishop’s palace with me, if you like. But I shall not discuss it in such a crowd.’

‘I shall come anon. First I’ll report to the council.’

Owen thanked God for the man’s sense of order.

T
he crowds had thinned by the time Owen made his way up Petergate again, but several people stopped him to ask after Poins, or about Cisotta. Speculation was rife about why she had been unable to escape the fire, whether she had been trapped, and one passer-by asked Owen whether she had injuries besides her burns. He said little, fearful that he might reveal more than he intended. One thing was certain – Wykeham would not be pleased by how much the city guessed.

Owen was saddened by the morning’s task, questioning Eudo about his wife’s death while not telling the truth. And yet he was uneasy about Eudo’s temper. Without evidence to the contrary he could not rule out the possibility that the tawyer had killed his wife. He would not be the first spouse to lose control in an argument. They might have fought about the man who had frightened Anna. Owen resolved to post a guard at the tawyer’s shop and in the yard behind his house both to watch Eudo and to protect him. It was always possible that the mysterious intruder in the
Dales’ kitchen the previous night might seek him out.

Close to the scene of last night’s fire, Petergate was much quieter than it had been earlier, although a few clusters of people lingered near the bishop’s gutted house. The right corner of the roof had caved in – that was where Owen had seen the flames climbing when he had been inside. That entire corner was blackened, the boards burned through in places. It reminded Owen of a black lacquer cabinet with elaborate carving that he had once seen, he could not remember where. The steps to the living quarters had survived almost intact, up to the last few and the landing, where the boards were blackened and several hung down and swung gently, caught in a draft in the alleyway.

The undercroft door was gone – two wickets shoved into the opening were all that secured the remains from animals, theft, or the curious. Owen was considering where he might find a lantern so that he could ascertain whether a better closure was needed when someone joined him on his blind side. Remembering his earlier encounter with the bailiff, Owen turned slowly.