‘Mary Garrett is one of the poor in the minster yard?’
Michaelo nodded.
‘Did you notice anyone about?’
‘I did not move from her side.’
‘So Magda arrived not long before you encountered this woman and heard the shouts?’
‘Yes. You are thinking Dame Magda might have noticed something as she came through the minster yard. I can escort you there.’
‘You sat with Mary Garrett through the night?’
‘I did.’
‘You should retire to your lodgings, and some well-earned sleep.’ As Michaelo assured him he often went without sleep, Owen interrupted. ‘Had you expected Magda sooner?’
A sniff. ‘I did. The lad I sent in the night to summon her returned alone. Said she would be delayed. She gave no reason. The boy said he’d heard another voice in her house when he knocked on the door, but she did not invite him in, so he could not see who it was. A man, that is all he knew.’
Owen closed his eye, chasing the sense of an idea gathering strength, that this Ambrose had found his way to Magda’s home, and he had been the cause of her delay. If he was the man Owen knew, he and the healer were old friends. He had been one of the few people in York to befriend her son, Potter Digby. He had looked beyond her late son’s odd appearance and his work as the archdeacon’s summoner and noticed his voice, a strong middle range. When Ambrose and his lover needed to flee, Magda had come to their aid. His lover might have taught him how to avoid the locked gates after dusk. One who knew the tides and the mudflats might avoid waking the guards at the gates by slipping down the bank and creeping upriver along the oozing mud. A dangerous route, but if Ambrose had been desperate enough to exchange cloaks, he might risk it.
‘You think to find this Ambrose at her home?’ asked Michaelo.
Uncanny how quickly the monk had learned to fathom Owen’s thoughts. Chilling to think there was nothing quick about it, that he had seen into Owen’s mind through all the years serving Archbishop Thoresby.
‘I will be disappointed if I do not find him there.’ Owen rose. ‘I must see if Lucie needs assistance, then we will go.’
A bow. ‘I will await you here by the fire.’
Lucie met Owen on the landing and drew him into their bedchamber. ‘One of Aunt Philippa’s gowns might fit her.’ Her aunt had died a few months earlier. ‘She was tall.’
‘Injuries?’
‘After I cleaned the mud and grime from her I found fresh bruising on her wrists, her right hand, arms, shoulders, neck, chin, mouth, ankles, and legs. Grazing on one knee as if she fell on it. The back of her right hand has a darkening bruise, her knuckles are scraped, two of her fingernails are torn, one of her fingers might be sprained for it does not curl like the others. Nothing serious, but all signs of a struggle with someone much stronger than she is. The marks on her wrists and ankles suggest she was bound. There is a cut on her ankle bone that might have been caused by a knife slicing the bonds.’
‘As fresh as last night?’ He told her what Michaelo had said about the condition of her clothes.
‘Yes. Poor woman. I did not notice anything that would suggest her attacker ravished her, but I cannot be certain.’ They exchanged a pained look. ‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘I want to talk to Magda. I have a feeling about this Master Ambrose, and, if I am right, he might have gone to her.’
‘You are thinking Ambrose Coates?’
‘Am I mad?’
She touched his cheek. ‘We shall see.’ She went over to her chest of clothes, crouching down to open it. Glancing back at him, she asked, ‘If it is him, will you bring him here?’
‘No. I will not risk him in our home, at least not until I know why he is here. Even then …’
She nodded. ‘You do not have a sense of him as you do this woman.’
‘I’ve not seen him in years.’
‘The musical instruments he left behind. It would be good to give them to him. I could use the space in the workroom.’
‘How did that come to mind?’
She pulled out a wool gown, then stood up, shaking it out. ‘I am reminded of him whenever I tidy the workroom.’
Unable to take all his precious instruments on his flight from York, Ambrose had entrusted them to Magda Digby, who had asked Lucie to keep them safe in her workshop. Lucie did all she could to keep the workroom warm, yet not too warm, dry, yet not too dry, so it was a suitable home for the sensitive items.
He leaned against the wall, watching Lucie change into the warmer gown. ‘You are going to work in the shop?’ The hearth in the apothecary workroom did little to warm the small shop front.
‘If Alisoun can spare me for an hour, I thought to spend a little time there. Jasper has been alone for most of the past fortnight.’
‘What of our guest?’
‘I will slip a sleep draught in her ale.’
‘Clever.’
‘The man’s clothing – she runs from something.’
‘Michaelo thinks a convent.’
‘I would understand why a woman might do that.’ Lucie had been sent to St Clement’s Priory, a Benedictine nunnery outside the city walls, after her mother died. And often attempted escape. ‘Once she feels at ease, which rest might afford us, she may confide in us. Tell us who she is, why she is running. From whom. From what.’ She shrugged. ‘Or she may remain a cipher.’
‘You might warm yourself distilling some elixir to free her tongue.’
Lucie looked over her shoulder to make sure he smiled, chuckling when she saw that he did. ‘If only it were so simple. So you distrust Ambrose?’
‘How can I know? He has been away a long while. And you must admit he has ever attracted trouble. If this is him, he has certainly brought it this time – a man falling from the chapter-house roof, a vicar’s murder, and this young woman dressed as a man, clearly having suffered an ordeal last night. I will be interested to hear what you might learn of her.’
‘A riddle. I accept the challenge.’ She touched his arm. ‘And do consider the instruments. If Ambrose intends to work, he will need them.’
‘So you trust him?’
‘I did not say that.’
Owen was about to follow Lucie’s lead in donning warmer clothing when he was interrupted by someone pounding on the door that opened onto Davygate. Glancing out the narrow window above it, he saw his friend George Hempe, a city bailiff, and Adam, precentor of York Minster. The chapter had wasted no time.
‘Come round to the kitchen,’ he called down, trying to keep his voice low. All this fuss would surely wake the children. Indeed, that they were not yet wakeful worried him. As soon as he saw George and Master Adam move on to the garden gate, Owen finished dressing and went to check on the nursery.
He found Lucie in the doorway, speaking softly to Alisoun, who held baby Emma in her arms, rocking her.
‘Is she an angel?’ It was Gwen’s sleepy voice, and there she was, his raven-haired first-born, tugging on her mother’s skirts, Alisoun softly explaining that while she was distracted with Hugh, Gwen had slipped out of bed and gone to the room in which the woman slept.
Their guest’s skin pale as if carved from candle wax, her flaxen hair – he could see why his daughter thought the woman a divine being.
‘How is my beloved?’ Owen crouched down and held out his arms to Gwen.
She came shuffling over and hugged him tightly. ‘Has she come to take Hugh to heaven?’
Lucie knelt to them, a protective hand on her daughter’s back. ‘No, my love, Hugh is out of danger.’
How could she be so certain? Owen prayed Lucie was right, but he still feared for his son, for all three of them.
‘He is sleeping off his victory over the fever,’ Lucie said. ‘You shall see. The woman is our guest.’ She leaned over to Owen, kissed his cheek. ‘Have faith in the healers in your household, my love.’