‘How terrible it must be to …’ She was interrupted by a man expressing his thanks that Owen was to be captain of the city bailiffs.
‘He will see to scoundrels and crooks,’ the man said.
When Lucie explained that he had taken on his present investigations as favors to the Swanns and the Braithwaites, that nothing had been decided about Owen’s future, the man seemed to wilt.
No sooner had he walked on than a woman touched Lucie’s arm, shyly asking whether Owen had found Old Bede, and whether it was true that a wolf was running loose in the city. No wolf in the city, Lucie assured the woman, but Old Bede was still missing. Again, the disappointment was visceral.
‘Their fear has me questioning the wisdom of escorting you to the crowded yard,’ said Michaelo.
‘I take responsibility for my own safety,’ said Lucie. She was watching alleyways and the shadowy areas close to the shop fronts, alert for danger. ‘Are the dean and chapter eager to evict the poor from their yard?’
‘I have no doubt they pray for a reason to do so.’
Lamps were being lit in the homes they passed, and within the minster gates the stonemasons were saying their goodnights as they quit work on the east end, Thoresby’s Lady Chapel.
‘He would be pleased that the building continues,’ she said as they passed.
‘Let us pray that the dean and chapter manage to hide the funds from the grasp of the new archbishop,’ said Michaelo.
‘He is a greedy man?’
A sniff. ‘He is a Neville. Sir Richard Ravenser would have seen it finished, and finished well.’ Thoresby’s nephew and the late archbishop’s personal choice to succeed him. The powerful Nevilles had outmaneuvered him, winning the king’s support. ‘An opportunity squandered,’ said Michaelo. He drew a square of linen from his sleeve as they approached the shacks huddled against the north end of the minster. Lucie caught a scent of lavender as he shook it out and held it to his nose.
And yet, as they picked their way along a narrow path between the shacks folk smiled and bobbed their heads at Michaelo as if he were a familiar, trusted figure. He nodded in turn, and responded to many by name. Wattle and daub, reed mats, piles of stones, half-burnt timbers – the folk fashioned their dwellings with whatever came to hand, and few seemed sufficient to protect them from the harsh Yorkshire winter to come.
‘Did you tell Cilla you were bringing me?’
‘No, I merely inquired as to her welfare, having heard that she’d suffered a fall and badly bruised her face. Here we are.’ He handed Lucie the basket.
Tucked into the corner where the nave met the north transept, the shelter was nothing more than planks of wood angled against the stone edifice. Well shielded from the wind, perhaps, but little else. The sharp angle shaded it, so the stone would be cold and damp.
‘If it’s Cecelia you seek, you’ll not find her here.’ The speaker leaned on a crutch fashioned from a branch, the top wrapped round with rags as filthy as the ones that hung from his large, emaciated frame. ‘Gone in the night.’
‘Gone?’ Michaelo looked round as if not believing him.
Lucie looked round, noticed a girl peering out from the shelter beside Cilla’s. She crouched down to speak to her. ‘I brought salves for Cecelia. I’d heard she was badly bruised.’
The girl’s head seemed to sink into her shoulders as she shied away.
‘Would you know where I might find her?’
A shake of the head revealed horrible scarring from a burn on one side of her face, and Lucie realized that the child had only one arm.
‘She won’t want you to find her.’ Her mouth twisted as she spoke, the scar making it difficult for her to form her words.
Lucie drew out a jar of the salve Owen used to keep the skin of his blind eye soft and malleable. ‘This will soften the skin on your face,’ she said. ‘A little each morning and each night.’ She handed it to the girl. ‘A gift.’
A twisted smile. ‘The man with the hellhound came for her in the night.’
‘Grace!’ A woman plucked the jar from the child and handed it to Lucie. ‘We do not need your pity.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Lucie. ‘I am–’
The woman withdrew with the child.
Michaelo touched Lucie’s arm. ‘Come. We are not welcome here.’
‘The child was about to tell me something.’
‘No matter.’ Michaelo took the basket from her arm and guided her away.
As they picked their way among the dwellings, Michaelo asked a few whether they knew where Cecelia had gone. The question was met with uneasy glances as folk shook their heads. At the edge of the camp a woman fell into step with Lucie.
‘They are afraid of the hellhound,’ she whispered. ‘But the beast cannot harm Cecelia.’
Lucie turned to ask the woman how she knew, but she’d vanished.
‘In faith, she was there yesterday,’ Michaelo was saying. ‘Forgive my error. When I inquired after her wellbeing earlier and heard she was away I took that to mean for the moment.’
‘Who was the woman who spoke to me just now?’
Michaelo frowned down at her. ‘I did not see.’
Wrapping Dame Muriel against the evening chill, Alisoun led her out onto the solar landing, walking her back and forth to work out a cramp in her calf. The landing stretched the length of the house, affording a view of the Fenton garden, the York Tavern, and, at a slight angle, Lucie Wilton’s apothecary garden. Dame Janet would be horrified to see them out there, believing as she did that her daughter must remain in bed. But Muriel was no longer hobbled by the cramp, and she breathed with more ease. Even such a simple exercise might induce a deeper, more restful sleep. They continued their pacing, saying little, both lost in their own reveries, until Alisoun caught a movement near the rear door of the Fenton house. As she watched she saw a man gesture to an animal so large that as it began to dart away he hardly needed to bend over at all in order to catch it by the scruff of its neck and make it stay.
She must alert Ned without alarming the household. ‘I pray this has encouraged your appetite, Dame Muriel.’ She hoped her companion did not hear the tremor in her voice as she tried to lead her toward her bedchamber.
But Muriel resisted. ‘A few more turns. My leg feels so much better.’
Alisoun rubbed Dame Muriel’s shoulders. ‘We will stay out longer in the morning.’
Muriel shook her off and stepped over to the railing. ‘Is that the new servant in the Fenton garden? What was his name? Ned. Yes, like my cousin. Why would he trespass?’
Alisoun joined her. Ned was indeed stealing toward the Fenton house. The man and dog were no longer in sight. She felt a wave of relief.
‘He is following Captain Archer’s orders, guarding your household,’ said Alisoun. ‘The Fentons’ house being empty, he’s right to check it.’
‘Bless him. Bless all of you.’ Muriel touched Alisoun’s forearm. ‘I could not ask for more loving care. I believe I might eat something now.’
Alisoun hurried down to the kitchen herself, telling the cook what she wanted, that she would return for it in a moment. At the gate into the Fenton garden she saw no one. Hurrying to the house, she found the door ajar. She pushed it open and was stepping through when someone grabbed her from the shadows, holding a dagger to her throat.
‘Be silent. You are safe so long as you say nothing. You did not see me. You were not here.’
Feeling the stump of the arm pressing into her chest, she knew it to be Crispin Poole.
He pushed her out the door and shut it behind her.
Back in the Swann yard, she vomited in the midden.