Owen and Crispin headed back across the river, both alert for the missing man and dog.
‘So Gisburne is not to be trusted,’ Crispin noted.
‘In my experience, no.’
‘He behaved in such wise when you were Thoresby’s man? Did the archbishop do nothing?’
‘He would allow Gisburne to make a generous donation to the fund for the minster’s Lady Chapel.’
‘But John Thoresby was highly regarded. A saint compared to Neville.’
‘He was no saint.’ Owen glanced at Crispin. ‘It would seem you are doing more than making a list of influential citizens for Neville.’
The man pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the street ahead.
Owen grew impatient. ‘So you choose not to speak.’
‘No. I– I would be your friend, and so I hesitated to tell you. The city dreads the arrival of the new archbishop. His reputation being what it is, they see him as a wolf, not a shepherd of souls. And I’m to be to Neville what you were to Thoresby. I will have few friends here.’
Worse than Owen had guessed, but fair warning. ‘You have my sympathy. And I would say that even were it not Neville.’ Though had it been Richard Ravenser … But there was no point in such thoughts.
‘But you said– One night in the York Tavern you admitted to missing Thoresby.’
‘The man, yes. And the knowledge, the support, the authority I enjoyed. But he could be maddening. Powerful men are, in my experience.’ A grunt of agreement. ‘You are at ease with Neville?’
A bitter laugh. ‘No one is at ease with the man. I’ve yet to hear anyone speak of him with any affection.’
‘This Leufrid?’
‘Alexander Neville and Dom Leufrid are two of a kind. Cold, ruthless.’
‘Men of the Church.’
‘Ambitious men for whom the Church was the way to power.’
Owen liked the way Crispin thought – to a point. But as Prince Edward’s man or the captain of the city, Owen would need to watch every word, every gesture when in Poole’s company. Pity. They might have been friends, in another time.
‘I should tell you, Gisburne spoke of another man on the barge, a Moor, he did not name him, but an emissary from Prince Edward.’
A Moor? Owen wondered … ‘Emissary to–’
‘You, as I understand it. Apparently the prince is keen to add you to his household. Quite an honor. But I thought Geoffrey Chaucer was seeing to that.’
‘His Grace grows impatient?’ Owen shrugged, though his mind was racing. Might it be his old friend? ‘What had Gisburne to say of that?’
‘That you were Icarus, in your arrogance flying too close to the sun.’ Poole chuckled. ‘By the rood, the man envies you.’
‘He must have little experience of His Grace the prince.’
‘That is what I said.’
Yes. They might have been very good friends. But back to the matter at hand.
‘When I told you of the attack on Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen, ‘you called her a damnable woman, said you’d feared – what? What does your mother have to do with the murders? Why would the man who lunged at her shout something about his father’s honor?’
‘You implied her injuries were minor. But if he lunged at her – who intervened? She sees only the faintest shadow in the best light. She could not defend herself.’
‘Alisoun Ffulford.’
‘The Riverwoman’s apprentice?’
Owen told him what she’d done, how serious her injury.
Crispin looked far more stricken than he had when told about his mother. ‘How did Mistress Alisoun come to be there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she – has she mentioned me?’
A curious question. ‘She has not awakened.’
‘I mean, before. Anything about – I see from your expression she kept my secret. May God watch over her. If she should die – God knows, I am to blame. I take full responsibility.’
Owen wanted to hear about that.
‘You should also know that the serving man did his best to protect Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen. ‘Injured as well, but he’s able to walk and tell you what he witnessed.’
‘Old Dun? Then I have misjudged him.’
‘What of this Gerta?’
‘When did you connect that with all this?’
‘Not me. Two men were overheard speaking of her. They had come into some money and were spending it on good wine. Too much good wine. Their good fortune was somehow thanks to her. Or her murder.’
Crispin had stopped in front of Christchurch, staring at Owen. ‘Recently?’
‘Several weeks ago.’
Crispin nodded. ‘Come.’
12
Gerta
In Crispin’s hall, Magda watched as Lucie dripped some liquid into Alisoun’s half-opened mouth. Owen might find it a comforting sight had Alisoun been fussing, or gazing round with her usual wary expression. First Magda, then Lucie glanced up to see who had arrived, then, with nods, went back to their work. Crispin led Owen down a narrow passageway past Dame Euphemia’s bedchamber, where the elderly woman lay in a deep slumber or faint, Owen could not say, and brought him to the garden.
Owen nodded to Dun, who sat watch, pitchfork in one hand.
As Crispin approached, the old servant rose abruptly. ‘Master.’
‘Sit, I pray you.’ Crispin expressed his appreciation for Dun’s years of service to his parents, and his gratitude for the man’s courage this day. Dun bobbed his head.
Intent on his own mission, Owen crouched down and pulled back the cover from the dead man’s face. ‘So, Poole, do you know this man?’ How Crispin played this part would reveal much. Owen had no doubt the man was known to him.
‘Difficult to say …’
‘Is it?’
‘The young woman has a remarkable aim,’ said Crispin, as if he had not heard the question.
‘That she does,’ Owen agreed. He waited. Would Crispin lie?
Easing himself down in a crouch by the body, Crispin turned the man’s head so that he might study the face. ‘Avenging his father. Of course he would. But how did he know who falsely accused him?’
‘So you know him?’
‘We have met. And I knew his father. A farmer fallen to poaching in Galtres, but a good man. My mother – accursed woman–’ Abruptly rising, Crispin nodded to Owen. ‘We will talk. But first, despite all, I will sit a moment with my mother, then join you in the hall to explain.’
Crispin’s was a tidy house, spacious, though an odd choice for a blind woman and a one-armed man, narrow passageways and the indoor steps to the solar narrow and steep. Owen supposed Crispin might make use of the stump of his arm for balance as he took the steps, but it would be awkward. He could not imagine Dame Euphemia climbing to the solar; perhaps that was the very reason Crispin had chosen the house, a chance for solitude when he retired to his chamber. He was clearly not over-fond of his mother.
The hall was spacious, making the bed in which Alisoun lay seem tiny, albeit with a thick mattress and an abundance of pillows. She lay with her brown hair fanned out round her, supported by enough cushions that she was almost sitting. Long lashes were dark against her white cheeks. But as Owen drew near he noticed her breathing was quiet and steady. A good sign.
‘A brave young woman,’ said Magda.
‘And fortunate in her healers,’ said Owen, nodding to Magda, kissing Lucie’s forehead.
‘Did you find the man?’ Lucie asked.
‘No, but I’ve much to tell you. And if he is honest, Crispin Poole is about to tell me about a young woman’s death that might somehow be the core of these troubles.’
‘Eva mentioned something about that,’ Lucie said, telling him what she’d gleaned.