Owen could not deny that. “I could dispose of the bones for you.”
The riverwoman shook her head. “Magda’s bone man prays over them as he buries them. Magda does not have the prayers. Nor dost thou, not the proper prayers.”
The riverwoman’s beliefs puzzled Owen, though Lucie seemed to understand them. She said that faith came hard to Magda. She must see to believe. But Magda understood that most folk needed the Church to comfort them and keep them on the path of righteousness. “Your bone man is a priest?”
“A friar.”
Magda placed her trust in the oddest creatures. “Friars are not opposed to relics. Why trust him?”
“He understands Magda removes cursed limbs. They must be left in peace.”
Generous man; there was money to be made in relics. Owen hoped Magda was not being cheated. “And you want me to sleep here and scare off anyone who lurks about?”
“Aye.”
“Why me?”
“Thou art a good man, Bird-eye. Thou’lt let thy God guide thee.”
God guide him in catching a thief. A strange way of putting it, but in the end it was God’s hand guided all men in their work. Owen shrugged. “You have done much for me and asked naught in return. ’Tis time I returned the favor.” It was a change from the political webs in which the archbishop was wont to snare him.
The wrinkles deepened about her mouth and eyes as the riverwoman smiled. “Magda knew thou wouldst aid her. Though thou lookst a rogue, thou art a gentle man, Bird-eye. See thou takest care. Thou hast a family would miss thee and curse Magda if aught happened to thee.”
“Lucie is close to her time. What if the babe—”
“Peace, Bird-eye. Magda knows the signs. Lucie is not ready. Magda will return in time. See that thou comest tomorrow evening.”
“This thief will stay away during the day?”
“Young Jack will watch during the day. Easy for the lad to draw attention in daylight if he needs help. Not so easy at night.”
Owen should have known Magda would think of everything.
Long before sunset the next day Owen passed out the gates of the city. He picked his way down to the riverbank through mud and the ramshackle huts of the poor, looking for the man who had watched him the previous day. A cat sniffed and followed, hoping to trick him out of the sweet he carried in his bag. Children watched him uneasily, his height, his dark beard, and the patch over his scarred face all fearful. Would his own child fear him so?
He searched the vermin city and found no one as well fed as a relic dealer. At last he gave up and rowed the coracle over to Magda’s rock. Young Jack had been waiting. He jumped up, eager to get off the island before dark.
“Did anyone bother you today, lad?”
“Nay, Captain Archer. ’Twas a quiet day.”
Owen drew a cup covered in oiled cloth from his bag and from it pulled a slice of angelica stem dipped in honey. “Mistress Wilton thought you might enjoy this.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Captain!”
Owen returned it to the cup and handed it to Jack. “There’s a cat waiting on the bank for it. Take care to hold it high.”
The boy carefully placed it on the floor of the coracle and picked up the oar.
“See that you return early,” Owen said as he untied the boat and eased it into the water.
“I won’t fail you, Captain,” the boy cried as he paddled off.
Owen watched to see that Jack reached the riverbank without mishap, then walked round the outside of the house before heading in. Within, fresh straw had been spread on the mud floor. Owen wondered where Magda got so much energy at her age. Though no one in York knew how old she was, no one could remember her not being here. Even Bess Merchet, proprietress of the York Tavern and reservoir of city history, could not say how old Magda was or whence she’d come to the odd house on the rock. Magda was a good friend to him and Lucie, but they knew little about her. Owen might learn something of Magda’s past with a careful search of the house. Tempting, but he would not so betray a friendship.
He went outside, settled on the bench facing back toward the city, poured himself some ale from the jug he’d brought with him, and settled in to watch and wait. He leaned back and looked up at the dragon’s head silhouetted against the evening sky. What sort of folk went to sea with such a monster on their prow? Why did Magda choose such a thing to crown her house? She made a joke of it, but why had she really chosen it? To guard the jar?
For that matter, how did he know what was actually in the jar? A leg and part of an arm, would those call for a constant watch? What did Magda care whether the bones went to a relic dealer or were given a Christian burial? And what was the point of a Christian burial if the limbs were not with the rest of the body? When the bones rose up on Judgment Day, how were they to find the rest of the body and rejoin it?
Owen stood and shook his arms and legs to loosen them after his long sit in the damp air. Silly thoughts he was having. He looked about him. The stars were brightening in the darkening sky and the water lapped quietly away from the north side of the rock. He walked slowly round the house, listening for sounds nearby. Nothing but the water and his own footsteps.
He approached the jar, standing tall and silent, its lid secure. Perhaps he should have looked within while it was light. What if the thief had already struck? Owen considered getting a lantern and checking now. He put his hands on either side and gently rocked the jar. Felt much the same as the day Magda had asked him to move it for her. It had been empty then. Perhaps it was empty now and he was playing the fool. He rocked it again. Something shifted within.
No doubt he would be uneasy until he looked inside.
Owen continued his circuit of the hut, then went in to get a lantern. He cursed himself when he found the fire almost out. Had he come in much later he would have spent a cold night in the dark. Now he must take the time to stoke the fire.
By the time Owen had the fire burning once more, he was thirsty and hungry. He spread his cold meal of bread, cheese, and meat out on a table and poured himself an ale. Sitting down, he stretched his booted feet out toward the fire and took a long, satisfying drink, then bent to the food. He was noisily chewing the hard-crusted bread when he heard a noise at the door. He stopped chewing, held his breath — heard nothing but the gentle lapping of the water and the far-off cries of the night watchmen. He had not realized how much time had passed. Perhaps he should make a circuit of the rock before he finished his meal. And take a look inside the jar. He lit a lantern and stepped outside.
Something came whistling through the air toward Owen’s head. He stepped back and the missile flew past him, falling with a plop into the river. Closing the shutter on the lantern, Owen dropped down to a squat. It was now quite dark and a mist rose up from the river, not too thick, but just enough to shield him as long as he stayed low. He peered out into the dark but saw no one moving. Nor did he hear anyone. Staying low, he crept to the corner of the building and listened. The tide was out and the mud would noisily suck at a walker’s feet. Nothing. His attacker must be on the rock.
Still in a crouch, Owen edged along the north side of the house toward the back. A scraping sound. He paused. Heard it again. The sound echoed. He hurried round the corner, saw at first only the jar. But the scraping sound came again. Now he noticed motion at the top of the jar. The thief was working on the lid.
Owen sat back on his heels and considered his options. He could open the shutter and surprise the thief with the light. After all, where could the thief run? And how likely was it he could outrun Owen? But tackling him to the ground would be far more satisfying. Owen had worked up a lot of tension and a nice physical attack would help work it off. But he must not be too violent; he wanted to find out who the thief was and why he attacked Owen but not Magda.