Erkenwald let out a sigh. ‘I cannot say. I sensed a deep sadness in him, but whether that might move him to violence or peace …’ The canon shook his head. ‘I confess I cannot find it in me to believe him sincere, but that is my sin, not his. My earlier impression of him, in France – I cannot yet see beyond that.’
‘I will talk to him tomorrow. I would today, but the requiems …’
‘You have your hands full.’
Owen mentioned Cilla, that Lucie had hoped to talk to her in the minster yard. ‘Have you met her?’
‘I have. Why?’
‘She worked for Bartolf Swann.’
‘Ah. I do recall mention of that. She sought a post here, but chafed at the rules, wanted to work as it pleased her. Mark me, her manner might be unsettling, but Cecelia, or Cilla, as you will – she has her feet firmly on the earth. She is cunning. Scheming.’
‘That is a new wrinkle.’
‘I cannot speak to her purpose, but our disinterest angered her.’
Perceptive man. ‘I could use your help.’
‘You know where to find me.’ Erkenwald’s scar twisted his smile.
‘I meant out beyond St Leonard’s gates.’
‘That is not my calling.’
‘You are so certain?’
‘I am. Now, Brother Michaelo …’ Erkenwald frowned. ‘No, in truth I cannot imagine him in anything but those tidy robes.’
‘He has hidden depths.’
‘I’ve no doubt of that.’
They sat for a little while in silence, watching the lay sister gathering beauty in her basket.
Alisoun stepped out into Coney Street with a basket over her arm and a list in her head of the gifts Dame Muriel wished to have ready to present to the servants after the requiem mass. A peculiar idea inspired by a dream in which all deserted her in mourning. Upon awakening, she realized how dependent she was on all who were helping her through this darksome time, even the servants, and she meant to show her gratitude. Such extreme emotions neither surprised nor concerned Alisoun, for Magda had warned her that they were to be expected, particularly as a woman approached her lying-in. But it made it no less irritating that Alisoun must hurry out as soon as the shops opened, and without a servant to assist her – for that would ruin the surprise.
Dreams had troubled Alisoun’s sleep as well, dark dreams of great black beasts stalking the shadowy streets, fangs bared, their fiery eyes peering into the darkest corners, seeing all. The last thing she wished to do this morning was walk the streets alone. Though she knew it unlikely the streets were any less safe than on any other day, she could not seem to talk herself out of a strong sense of unease.
Folk greeted her with enthusiasm, lingering as if hoping she might share some gossip. After all, she was in the bosom of the bereaved family. She thanked them for their prayers and hurried on.
Her first call was a chandler’s shop. She was just stepping away with her purchases of oils and candles when she caught sight of Wren, the young maidservant who had been at Magda’s home the night of Hoban Swann’s murder. Her eyes went at once to the girl’s stomach, though it was far too early for her to be showing again.
‘Mistress Alisoun!’
Realizing Wren must have noticed her glance and might interpret it as judgment – that Alisoun blamed her for her master’s inability to keep his hands to himself – she readied an apology.
‘Wren, I–’
‘I am grateful to you, Mistress Alisoun. My mistress never missed me. I will keep you in my prayers all my days.’
‘And your master?’
Wren seemed to hesitate, then leaned close to whisper, ‘Master Tirwhit has stopped his nightly visitations.’
The name caught Alisoun’s attention. ‘Adam Tirwhit? He is your master?’ Not her place to question, just to heal, according to Magda, so she’d not asked the name of Wren’s employer.
‘So he is.’
The back of Alisoun’s neck felt prickly. Providence? So her mistress was Olyf Tirwhit, part of the circle Dame Muriel had spoken about. ‘The murders – your master and mistress have reconciled in their grief?’
‘No, it’s not like that. He’s accused her of having a lover. He watches her. Angry.’ She leaned close again, though they’d both kept their voices low as they stood beneath the eaves of a house next to the chandler’s shop. ‘She slips over to the house he leased next door whenever she has a chance. She pretends it’s the aged widow Poole she’s visiting, but she fusses with her hair and her clothes before she goes.’ A knowing nod.
Crispin Poole was her neighbor? Had God sent Wren to her? Or … Alisoun almost backed away. Wren seemed too eager. It was of course possible that Crispin was Olyf’s lover. Or she feared that whoever had murdered two of her kin might aim the next arrow at her own heart, and Crispin, a former soldier, might protect them. Though he had but one good arm … Alisoun had heard Captain Archer say that a soldier injured in the field went on.
‘But the troubles began after he returned, so no one else trusts Crispin Poole. Neither her brother nor her father did, may God grant them rest. I pray my mistress is not walking into danger.’ Wren grasped Alisoun’s arm. ‘Are we in danger?’
Alisoun was now convinced that it was no accident Wren had discovered her here. Had she been scheming from the start? Coming to Alisoun the very night Hoban Swann was murdered? Keeping her from rushing out when she heard the dogs? ‘I doubt you need fear for yourself. But if you see anything that seems a threat to your mistress, you might send me word.’
A hesitant nod, then more vigorous. ‘I will. I want to help.’
‘Bless you. I am biding at the Swann home on Coney Street. Dame Muriel is with child, and with all that has happened she felt the need of me. Her losses – her husband, his father, I fear she might succumb, and lose the baby.’
‘Poor woman.’ Wren wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
‘She and Master Hoban waited so long for this child. But Captain Archer means to find the murderers,’ said Alisoun, ‘and if there is anything I might learn to help him …’
‘So I should bring word to you about anything that I learn about Dame Olyf and Master Crispin?’
She was keen to focus on them. ‘Or anything that happens at either house that does not seem as it should. Any strangers loitering about.’
‘Strangers,’ Wren whispered.
‘Yes. Can you do that?’
‘I can, Mistress Alisoun. But why are you here in the market when the Swanns are to be buried this morning at St Helen’s? Does Dame Muriel not need you?’
Was that what she was after this morning? ‘I might ask the same of you. Did Dame Olyf not need your help dressing?’
‘She woke me before dawn to dress her, then left with the master to be with the family. Did you not see her?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, perhaps they went to the Braithwaite home.’
‘And you are not attending her today?’
‘Blessed be, no. But I must be on my way, I’ve much to do before they return this evening.’ She began to turn away, then stopped, staring at a man emerging from an alleyway close to them.
Alisoun shifted feet to see beyond the people milling about in between. A servant’s dress, patched, something handed down from his master, a large wart on the side of his nose.
‘Who is that?’ Alisoun asked.
‘Who?’
‘You held your breath as you watched him, you know of whom I speak.’
‘I– He was out near the midden last evening. I shooed him away.’
‘He was in the Tirwhit yard last evening?’ Alisoun tried to keep her voice steady. That wart … She recognized him. He had once come to Magda for savine, a type of juniper, so he might make a paste to remove the wart, he said. Magda had refused him, for it might also be used as a poison, offering a paste of houseleek instead. He had brushed it away, demanding the savine. Tie a toad round thy neck, Alisoun had snapped. Red-faced and cursing, he’d hurried off, slipping and sliding across the rocks to the riverbank in his blind fury. Magda had chided Alisoun. Insult a seeker with a useless charm and he’ll never return. Alisoun had not known it was useless, though she admitted she’d meant to insult him. What do you mean, a seeker? Magda had looked at her, disappointed. Thou’rt not such a fool as to believe he was after a cure?