The Archdeacon sniffed. 'You will. Besides. There would be talk. You are a single man of marriageable age, Mistress Wilton is young and fair, her husband is bedridden. You see the problem’
'I shall board elsewhere.'
The Archdeacon bowed to that. 'I see that you are eager to find a position. I admire that. But 1 advise you to stay away from this one. I will do what I can — and my influence is considerable, I assure you — to find you a post. Perhaps not in York, but I assume you are willing to go elsewhere?'
'That is kind of you.'
The Archdeacon inclined his head slightly. 'Not at all, Captain Archer.'
Anselm had encountered men like Owen Archer before, with his honeyed tongue, lustrous curls, and large, liquid, long-lashed eye. Such men carried part of the rib meant for Eve. They were evil, cunning. Attractive to women because the witches recognised themselves in him. This man had been called by Lucie Wilton. Of that, Anselm was certain. Lucie was her mother's spawn. And Bess Merchet aided her. What power must come from that union. Neither woman dropped her gaze in humility when he approached. Bold, unnatural women. Wicked.
And Owen Archer in league with them. He must be watched.
Bess sat on a stool behind the counter, chatting with Lucie between customers. She took pity on her friend, so tied down with the shop, with Nicholas, and with the house that she never got out into the town to gossip.
'What do you think of Owen Archer?' Bess asked. He had told her he'd been to the shop and met Mistress Wilton. Bess noted with interest the blush that coloured her pretty friend's face.
'I am not in the habit of giving opinions on my customers’ Lucie said, avoiding Bess's eyes.
Bess snorted, 'just as I thought.'
'What is that supposed to mean?' Lucie met her friend's eyes, challenging her.
'He charmed you.'
Lucie's cheeks flamed. 'He did not. If you must know, he was rude. He took me for a serving girl. Thought he could turn my head with pretty words.'
Bess winced. She had not taken Lucie's stubbornness into account when she imagined an innocent romance. Oh, dear. Well, perhaps it was for the best. 'Maybe he is a knave. Archdeacon Anselm sent for him. He's been to see him.'
'How do you know that?'
'I heard Owen Archer and Potter Digby talking at the tavern last night.' Bess didn't like the tightness in Lucie's voice. Or how the becoming blush had suddenly faded. That worries you?' Bess asked.
'Why should I feel anything at all about the matter? I hardly know the man.' Lucie turned sharply and knocked a clay cup off the counter. It split in two as it hit the rushes. Tears filled Lucie's eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
'Lucie, love, what's wrong?'
Lucie shook her head. 'I'm tired. Please go, Bess.'
'You need help in this shop.'
'Tell that to Guildmaster Thorpe.'
'Why don't you close up early today?'
'Just leave me alone, Bess. Please.'
Lucie sank down on the stool Bess had vacated and hugged her arms to herself. She did not believe in coincidences. Ever since the night Nicholas was brought home by Digby’ the Summoner and the Archdeacon had spied on them. Digby had never brought his custom to her before. His mother was a midwife. She doctored him when he fell ill. But suddenly he was a regular customer. And then yesterday he encountered Owen Archer in her shop and by evening the Archdeacon had sent for him. Was Archdeacon Anselm questioning all her customers? He frightened her. And he frightened Nicholas. Her husband denied it. 'He comes as a friend, Lucie. You must not be concerned with his visits.' But she knew her husband's moods, illness or no, and he was agitated after the Archdeacon's visits. He did not care for Anselm any more than Lucie did.
Eight
Owen spent the evening in a corner seat of the York Tavern, watching out for Summoner Digby. He was certain the man would storm in to demand what business Owen had with his mother. But he did not come.
Bess joined him for a drink late in the evening. She settled down across from him, saluted him with a tankard of ale. 'I think I deserve this.' She sipped, smiled her satisfaction. 'He's got the touch, my Tom. 'Tis usually the women who brew the finest ale, but my Tom's the exception to the rule.' She took another long drink. 'So how are you finding the folk of York?'
'I've not met many. The Archdeacon seems to have taken offence at my connection with the Archbishop. It seemed his sole purpose in seeing me. To find out my business at the minster.'
'Anselm's an unpleasant sort. A good man in his way. He's raised a deal of money for the Hatfield Chapel at the minster. That reflects well on us all. I must give him that. When the King comes to the dedication, he'll bring with him a large company. Good for business.'
Owen was tempted to mention the Archdeacon's allusion to Mistress Wilton's background, but he did not yet want Bess to know that he had his eye on a job with the Wiltons. He was not sure how Bess would respond. 'As for other folk in York, I've met some of the monks at St. Mary's. They seem a pleasant lot.'
'Monks.' Bess shook her head, making her cap ribbons tremble. 'Hiding away from the world. Pampered little boys, if you ask me. No wonder they're pleasant.' She sipped her ale. 'You've been up to the abbey, then?'
'I had a letter of introduction to Brother Wulfstan, the Infirmarian. I thought he might know of someone in need of a gardener or a surgeon's assistant. An apothecary's assistant. That sort of work.'
She studied him over the rim of her tankard. 'And did he know of any such opportunities?' she asked quietly.
Owen had walked right into it. There seemed no way around it. 'He mentioned the Wiltons.'
Bess bristled. 'I'm sure he did.'
'The poor man had an unfortunate winter.'
'Wilton?'
'No. Brother Wulfstan’
Bess frowned, confused.
'The two pilgrims who died in his infirmary?'
'Oh.' She shrugged. 'I suppose you could see that as Brother Wulfstan's misfortune. It certainly was the talk for a while. Folk feared the plague. It could happen again. Just that quickly. One day life as usual, next day all your neighbours sickening.' Bess sighed. 'Doesn't bear thinking about.'
'Did you know either of the men?'
'Second one was the notorious Fitzwilliam. Aye. He stayed here once or twice. I had to watch him with the help. A little too eager to plant his seed, that young man.'
'He had a reputation down south, too.'
'That's right. You would have known him.'
1 heard of him. We never met’
Bess shook her head. 'A man like him, wasting all his opportunities.' She shook herself. 'Listen to me. Gossiping about the dead, a man I hardly knew. So what's your next step?'
Owen could not think how to lead back to Fitzwilliam. 'I hope to speak with a few guildmasters. See what they suggest. The Archbishop's secretary sent out some letters.'
Bess nodded. 'You'll soon find something, an enterprising man like yourself.' Bess drained her cup and rose, dusting off her apron. 'Thanks for the company. I must get back to work.'
Owen smiled to himself as he watched her move away, efficiently cleaning away empty cups and wiping off tables as she went. She'd got the information she wanted while seeming to have a pleasant chat. A professional interrogator. He would do well to study her technique.
Bess handed Owen a message when he came downstairs the next morning. 'A messenger from the minster brought it first thing.' She gave him a conspiratorial wink. 'The Archdeacon won't like this, eh?'
Owen read it while Kit set some bread and cheese and his morning ale in front of him. Jehannes wanted to see him at once. Owen ate quickly and set off for the minster.
Jehannes greeted him with an apology for the curt note. 'I had to make sure you came here first. I must warn you, Archer, be careful with your questioning.'