‘No, cousin.’ Dom Leufrid’s voice was hoarse, as if he were short of breath. ‘I would speak with Dom Jehannes, the archdeacon.’
Still standing in the doorway, Michaelo explained that Jehannes was at the deanery. ‘I will tell him you called.’
Too curious to sit back, Lucie rose. Dom Leufrid’s wide body almost filled the doorway. Over his shoulders she could just make out two men with grim countenances. One of them appeared to nudge the cleric, who jerked, then chided Michaelo for his discourtesy.
‘I propose to sit by the fire and await his return,’ Leufrid wheezed.
Congested lungs, weak heart, Lucie thought as Michaelo stepped aside to let Leufrid pass. A limp added gout to her list of his ailments.
Three armed men followed, taking a stance just inside the door, as if guarding the inhabitants from departing. She recognized the one who had nudged Leufrid forward as one of the men Crispin Poole had brought with him when he’d arrived in York in summer. She knew him by a scar that twisted his mouth to one side. Had he been Neville’s man all the time? Curious. The archbishop’s household was doing little to earn him a welcome in York.
Leufrid looked inquiringly at Lucie.
‘Dame Lucie, this is my cousin Dom Leufrid, personal secretary to His Grace, Archbishop Neville.’ Michaelo’s blank face gave no hint of his clear insult, giving her the higher rank in the order of introduction.
Leufrid sniffed and raised a thin brow in response to his cousin, turning to Lucie with a chilly smile. ‘Should I know your name, Dame Lucie?’
Before Lucie could answer, Michaelo said, ‘If you have need of an apothecary while in York, I would advise remembering the name of Dame Lucie Wilton.’
‘I enjoy good health,’ said Leufrid, glaring at his cousin as if to challenge his thinking otherwise. ‘Is there illness in this household?’
‘An injured clerk,’ said Lucie. ‘I came to consult with Brother Michaelo on his care.’ As she spoke, a voice wafted out from the kitchen, a woman singing a few lines of a rhythmic song.
Quickly hushed.
Both thin brows raised. ‘A beautiful voice.’ Dom Leufrid’s three chins jiggled as he spoke, a comic accent on a tense moment.
‘A gift to one in pain,’ said Michaelo.
‘You are fortunate in your servants.’
‘Dom Jehannes inspires harmony in his household.’
‘I shall say a prayer over the injured clerk.’ Leufrid moved toward the kitchen, accompanied by twisted mouth.
‘We pray with him throughout the day, cousin,’ said Michaelo, following close behind.
As they reached the kitchen doorway, Owen stepped through. ‘Ah, Brother Michaelo, forgive me. I did not see that you had company.’ He glanced from Leufrid to the retainers and rested a hand on his dagger. ‘What is the trouble, Dom Leufrid?’
‘Of course, you have met.’ Michaelo’s voice was tight.
Lucie watched with interest as Owen waited for the cleric to explain.
‘Hearing that two men have been murdered in the minster yard, His Grace thought it best we move about with protection at all times.’
‘I see.’ Owen stepped forward, forcing Dom Leufrid to either step aside or retreat.
The secretary chose the latter, backing toward Lucie, lowering himself down with effort into the chair farthest from her.
Owen came to stand by Lucie, a hand on her shoulder. ‘I see my wife has already met you. Seeing to Beck?’ he asked her.
‘Judging whether it is time for a milder plaster for his head.’
‘I noticed as I came through the kitchen that he improves.’
‘We were interrupted before I could examine Beck,’ said Lucie. ‘Brother Michaelo tells me he has not yet regained his sight.’
‘The clerk was blinded?’ asked Leufrid. ‘Both eyes?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘Not a direct wounding, like mine, but caused by a hard blow to the head. He surprised someone ransacking the chamber of the murdered vicar.’
‘I pray you caught them,’ said Leufrid.
‘Not yet,’ said Owen. Lucie noticed him watching the one with the twisted mouth, who averted his eyes.
‘A pity, the one witness blinded,’ said Leufrid.
‘Would you care for some wine?’ Michaelo was rising to play host when Jehannes opened the door, starting at the sight of the armed guards in his hall.
‘Am I to be arrested?’
Dom Leufrid rose, with some difficulty. ‘Dom Jehannes, I am Dom Leufrid, personal secretary to His Grace, Archbishop Neville.’
‘Do you always move about with armed companions?’ asked Jehannes. ‘Is that what we should come to expect from the archbishop’s household?’
Leufrid opened his mouth to respond.
Owen preempted him. ‘Might I remind you, Dom Leufrid, that Prince Edward is keen to hear how the Nevilles treat the city. Hostile behavior toward members of the clergy will concern him. Nor will such tactics win His Grace support here.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jehannes, settling beside Lucie.
Leufrid repeated his explanation about the recent murders, his voice querulous.
During the ensuing discussion Lucie slipped away to the kitchen to silence Marian before another outburst of song.
Goodwife Anna now stood at the table Marian had been washing, kneading dough and shaking her head at the young woman now sitting beside Beck and holding his hand as she softly sang a hymn to the Virgin Mary.
‘You would be wise to remember not to sing when in disguise,’ Lucie said. ‘And that you are a kitchen maid, not a healer.’
‘He was moaning,’ said Marian. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘Send goodwife Anna out to fetch me.’
Marian rose. Picking up the pail and rag she had been using she turned toward the table.
Anna shooed her off. ‘I am using it now. You are welcome to scrub the floor.’
‘Will they soon be gone?’ Marian asked.
‘I cannot tell,’ said Lucie. ‘My husband prevented the archbishop’s secretary from coming into the kitchen, but if he insists we dare not refuse him. It would only convince him we have something to hide. Where is the one who arrived with me?’ She preferred not to speak Ambrose’s name aloud.
‘Still without, knocking snow off the bushes and the roof over the midden,’ said the cook. ‘He is a hard worker. As is this young woman.’
With a glum sigh, Marian moved to the far corner of the room and dropped to her knees.
She had just begun to scrub when the kitchen door opened, and Jehannes led Leufrid and the guard with twisted mouth to Beck’s bedside. Lucie wondered whether the large cleric would attempt to kneel beside the pallet, which sat on the stone floor. Even the stool was low and possibly too fragile to hold his weight. Goodwife Anna rushed to fetch a sturdy bench by the door. But Leufrid ignored her, choosing merely to stand over the injured man.
Beck turned his head toward him and reached out a hand. ‘I cannot see. Who are you?’
‘Best not touch him, Dom Leufrid,’ said the guard.
Lucie noted how Beck drew into himself at the sound of the man’s odd speech.
It was Jehannes who perched on the bench and took Beck’s hand. ‘This is Dom Leufrid, the archbishop’s secretary,’ he said in his most soothing voice. ‘He wishes to say a prayer over you.’
‘I pray that my sight might be restored,’ Beck whimpered. ‘Even a warm kitchen is a fearful place in this darkness.’
Making the sign of the cross over Beck, Leufrid whispered a prayer of no particular pertinence, then stepped away, gazing for a moment at Marian, who dutifully scrubbed the flagstones.
‘So many servants,’ he said, shaking his head as he turned and made his way in a slow shuffle back out to the hall, the guard following.