‘Did you see who you’d thought to see?’ Lucie asked Owen as he settled beside her.
‘Not tonight. I begin to think I am chasing my own shadow.’
That caught Jasper’s interest. ‘Are you watching for Martin Wirthir?’
‘Am I so predictable?’
‘When I heard about Tucker’s attacker, I wondered.’ Jasper drank down his cup, wished them all a good night.
Alisoun rose. ‘I should see to the children, then go up to Dame Marian.’ She followed Jasper into the kitchen.
Owen slipped an arm round Lucie.
‘Will we take Marian to the priory tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’ He repeated the warnings from Magda and Hempe.
‘She will be disappointed. When I took her a fresh lamp she wanted to hear about St Clement’s.’
‘Did she tell you anything more?’
‘Only that it meant something to her that it is a Benedictine priory.’ Lucie rested her head on Owen’s shoulder. ‘Why would she lie about her name once we knew she was not a he?’ she asked sleepily.
‘Because someone is searching for her, I would guess. Someone she fears. Neville’s men? They would not know her as Marian.’ He drank down his wine and kissed the top of Lucie’s head. ‘Tomorrow will be another long day. I need sleep. As do you.’
They were halfway up the steps when Alisoun returned. ‘Magda said she will stay the night, watching over the children. Shall I sit with Marian? Magda encouraged me to talk to her if she is wakeful, share my story, gain her trust.’
Owen looked to Lucie. She touched his arm and whispered, ‘I welcome the rest.’
‘We would be grateful,’ said Owen, thanking her for the generous offer.
Lucie slumped down on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘If Martin Wirthir had been there, and Jasper had seen him–’
Owen had been waiting for that. ‘Martin once saved our son’s life. He would never harm him.’
‘But what of Jasper’s pain? If Martin were the murderer … No. I give our son too little credit. He is a strong young man.’
‘He is.’ Owen sat down beside her, took her hand, kissed her cheek. ‘Danger is everywhere. I want only to protect all whom I love.’
Smoothing his hair from his forehead, she frowned at him, but he saw no anger in her blue-gray eyes. ‘I know. And I would never ask you to change.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And Jasper is so proud tonight.’ She pressed her hand to her heart. ‘So I will say no more about that.’
‘Come to bed, my love.’
10
Visitors and Intruders
Uncertain what woke him, Owen rubbed his scarred eye and sat up, belatedly noticing the shower of needle pricks. He rose, alarmed. Not by the sensation, but the portent – trouble was near. Moving to the window overlooking Davygate, he peered out at what he could see in the pale light of a winter dawn. More color in the sky, promising sunlight. A draught chilled him, but gentler than a few days earlier. Not much cooler than yesterday midday. More thawing, which meant the roads, though muddy, would be passable. The Nevilles might arrive at any time.
A sharp reminder of the portent set him in motion. He was dressed by the time Lucie woke to ask what was wrong.
‘Sleep, my love. I woke restless.’ He bent to kiss her forehead.
With a contented sigh she rolled over and snuggled beneath the covers.
Retrieving his leather patch from the shelf near the door, he positioned it over his ruined eye, ran his fingers through his hair, and stepped out onto the landing. Habit sent him to the next room. Empty. As he began to worry his mind caught up. The children had slept in the kitchen. He listened at the last door, heard voices, soft, two of them, Alisoun and Marian. Uncertain whether to interrupt, he decided as all appeared peaceful he would first go below, check the garden, the shop.
A fire already burned in the hall hearth, though the room was deserted. He crossed to the long garden window. A cacophony of drips masked all other sound, but he saw nothing obvious. He would make a slow circuit on his way to the apothecary.
A peal of laughter rang out from the kitchen. Hugh was awake and laughing. Loudly. God be thanked. Pushing open the door, he was greeted by a cheery scene, Gwen and Hugh in a tickling match, his youngest watching in wonder from Magda’s lap. Emma squealed to see Owen, lifting up her arms to be picked up. He was happy to oblige, spinning her round and hugging her close as her giggle turned to hiccups.
‘Didst thou sleep?’ Magda asked, rising to stretch her back.
‘I did.’ Kissing Emma, he handed her back to Magda, crouched down to tickle Gwen and Hugh, raising the noise to a startling level, and, laughing, crossed over to the boot bench.
‘Ale?’ Kate asked from the hearth.
‘In a moment. I need the garden.’ Best she thought he was focused solely on emptying his bladder.
Gently rocking Emma, Magda perched beside him as he pulled on his boots.
‘Thou’rt worried, Bird-eye?’ she asked in a quiet voice, not easily overheard.
He met her gaze. ‘Trouble is nigh.’ His whisper became laughter as Emma grabbed at his hair.
‘Da!’
Magda tickled Emma’s chin as she said, ‘Thou hast a shower in thine eye?’
‘I do.’
A nod, and she rose to rejoin the children, Emma squealing her farewell.
Owen’s love for all he held so dear propelled him forward into the day. Booted, he threw on a cloak and stepped out into the muddy aftermath of the first snow and thaw. His boots squelched on the pathway that wound beneath the bare-limbed linden and through the tall rosemary shrubs shimmering with a film of ice. A startled bird darted up and away, another flew to the top of the wall, watching him with one eye. The needle pricks were fading out here. Perhaps whatever had threatened moved on. Not necessarily a good sign. A watcher was unwelcome. He should have thought to have one of his men walking a circuit round the house and shop. One of the bailiffs’ men. He supposed they, too, were his now. At the midden he relieved himself, then turned back, pausing to search for movement, his ears pricked. Nothing. But as he moved down the path leading to the shop, the shower of needle pricks intensified. Crossing with as little noise as possible by stepping on rotten vegetation at the side of the path rather than the bare mud that sucked at his boots he approached the back door opening onto the workshop. Stepping inside, he felt the prickling intensify and rushed through to the shop just as the door closed. Slamming it open he almost knocked Jasper over.
‘Da?’ Jasper had lifted his broom as if to use it as a pike. Now he lowered it with a sheepish grin. ‘You saw him, too?’
‘Who?’
‘A man standing among the graves, watching the shop and the house. Cloaked. Must have sensed me coming out. He’s gone now.’
Owen crossed over and climbed up the short wall into the graveyard, checking with Jasper until his son motioned he was on the spot. Muddy indentation. Poor prints, difficult to follow out. Across the way he hailed a lad pushing a cart toward the river. But the boy had seen nothing. Slogging back across the cemetery, Owen shook his head at Jasper’s questioning frown.
‘I lost him.’ Seeing how his son’s shoulders sagged with defeat, Owen put an arm round him. ‘You did well. I will arrange a watch, not just in the garden but out on the street.’ Noticing the lad had come out without a cloak, he turned him round. ‘Come and break your fast with me.’
Alisoun’s body ached from sleeping all night slumped on a hard bench against the cold wall of Marian’s bedchamber, made worse by her reluctance to stretch while Marian knelt at the bedside, hands folded in prayer. When at last the woman rose, Alisoun escorted her out to the midden. As they’d passed through the kitchen, Lucie and Magda were herding the children into the hall with bowls of bread and cheese and something steaming in a jug. Alisoun shook her head at Lucie’s curious glance – no, she had learned no more. A futile vigil.