She called to the boy.
'What is on fire?'
'The top room. Captain Archer's.' The boy nodded toward the smouldering heap on the ground behind him. ' 'Tis his pallet.'
Lucie clutched the fence. No. Not Owen. Please God. 'And Master Archer?' Her throat was so tight the boy could not hear her. She asked again.
'He weren't in his room. Lucky, eh?'
'Was anyone hurt?'
'No one's I could see.'
Lucie thanked him and walked away while she still could. Her legs were feeling untrustworthy.
Back in the house she sat down in the kitchen, not wanting to return to Nicholas just yet.
Her reaction to the news that it was Owen's room on fire shocked her. Sweet Mary, it was as if — No. Not as if. She would not lie to herself. She was in love with Owen. She had thought herself so strong. Strong indeed. Falling in love with a one-eyed soldier. A handsome scoundrel had been Bess's first impression of him. A favourite with the ladies. Lucie could not believe it. A soldier. Trained to kill. And he had trained others to kill. Soldiers belonged to a brotherhood of death. It made them unfit for life. Her own father was a cold, unfeeling man. He had pushed her from him the moment her mother's back was turned by death. Only a simple child fell in love with a soldier.
But Owen did not seem like her father. He was more like Geof, her mother's fair-haired knight.
Owen said he had done with soldiering.
A ruse. A posture by which he meant to win her. She must remember he had been a soldier.
But her body remembered how he had caught her. He had perhaps saved her life.
Because he had been watching in the dark at the foot of the stairs. What of that? What was his purpose? His purpose still might be to wrest the apothecary from her when Nicholas was gone. All he needed was to reveal a scandal. And it was there for him to find. The ordinance said nothing about a second chance. Said nothing for exceptions due to illness. He could ruin them with such a small piece of information.
She had lost her wits, to think such things of him and love him at the same time.
Lucie lay her head down on her arms and tried to calm herself, tried to tell herself that he was only an apprentice, that she had worried for him as she would for anyone with whom she spent so much time, that she could not possibly love him, that she must not love him. Her life was in turmoil enough without that.
Anselm lay prostrate before the altar, trembling with fear. If he were to die at this moment, he would burn forever in the fires of Hell. He had murdered twice now. He, who had rejected the life of the sword, had taken two lives in as many nights. He felt calm about the second, the burning of the one-eyed devil. He was quite sure that in sending Owen Archer to the fires of Hell he was carrying out God's will. And though Archer was Thoresby's man, Anselm was not afraid. The Archbishop would have no reason to connect Anselm with Archer's death.
All in all, Anselm was content with his dispatching of Archer. But Digby's death was different.
'Sweet Saviour,' Anselm whispered, 'I am your-' he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. He could not think how to pray, what to pray for. He had killed Potter Digby. No amount of prayer, no matter how heartfelt, would change that. Anselm had murdered his Summoner, the man who had worked hard for him, brought him far in his goal to complete the Hatfield chapel, never cheated him. Anselm had murdered Digby because of a rumour. Because he had suspected Digby of changing his allegiance. Because he had feared the man would accuse Nicholas Wilton in public, so that Anselm could not ignore it, would be forced to condemn his friend, his dearest friend.
But killing Digby was a mistake. Anselm had known that even as he walked from the river. Digby had not betrayed him. He had told Anselm of his suspicion. He had presented the facts to Anselm and would have accepted Anselm's decision. As always. So why had Anselm murdered him? What devil had taken hold of him and twisted his reasoning, pushed him to such an act? 'Sweet Saviour, forgive me. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.'
Perhaps this had been God's will? Perhaps Digby would have told someone else? Would have betrayed Nicholas? And God meant for Anselm to protect Nicholas. It was for that purpose that God had brought Anselm and Nicholas together at the abbey school.
Ever since Anselm had first seen Nicholas, he had understood that his own role was to protect him. Brilliant, humble, beautiful and fragile as an angel. Of course Nicholas was one of God's special sons. Destined to sit beside God through all eternity.
And Anselm had been called to protect him.
Anselm knew all about the need for protection. His father had used the manor as a training camp for young soldiers. Anselm had disappointed his father, he was quiet and studious, slender as a girl, his father said with disgust. Only his mother had fussed over him. His older brother was like his father. His sister was a horsewoman. Anselm was his mother's comfort.
And then she pushed him away to dally with one of the young men. Pushed him out. Fool that he was, he sulked around the stables and came to his father's attention. His father put him in training. Wrestling. Swordplay. Archery. His performance was hopeless. The young men laughed. His father was humiliated. One night, after too much wine, he dragged the boy out of his soft bed and gave him to his men. 'That's what comes of boys who hide behind women's skirts.'
The next morning, in pain and ashamed, Anselm hid. Eventually his mother asked for him. He told the tale, ashamed though he was, for he felt certain she would sympathise, somehow intercede for him. But she waved away his horror. 'It is the way of men, my weakling. I cannot protect you from the world.'
He tried to explain the pain, the horror.
She laughed. 'And do you think it is any different for me, you little fool? Watch next time your father comes to my bed. Watch.'
He did. His father beat her’ and then used her with such fury that she screamed in pain. Afterwards she wept, crumpled in a little ball.
Anselm came to her, tried to comfort her. The stench of his father was strong in the room.
He vowed to kill his father next time he came to her. Anselm watched. But it was the young soldier his mother fancied who came next. And she shamelessly showed herself to him, pulled him to her, urged him on. They were rutting animals.
When the man left, Anselm crept in with her. There was the smell of sex all over her. Anselm pressed his head to her breast. She pushed him away.
'I saw.'
'Little sneak. Get out!'
'You told me to watch.'
'That once. Only then.'
'Let me love you as he did.'
'Dear God!' She sat up, pulling the covers around her. 'Your father is right. You are unnatural.'
He saw loathing in her eyes. She, who had loved him. The only one who had ever loved him. There was some mistake. He reached for her.
She yelled for her maid. The heartless bitch. She coddled and caressed him as long as it amused her, and when she had made him totally dependent on her love, she discarded him. He lunged for her and tried to scratch her eyes out. He was pulled away and sent out to the soldiers. They had their fun with him until he found a protector.
Oh yes, he understood the need for a protector.
And then he'd been packed off to St. Mary's. And his turn had come to protect. And he was good at it. The Lord knew he had done his best. Even his father might be proud. And that bitch. She would have learned to fear him.
But had he gone too far? Could he be wrong about God's purpose? He could no longer remember the sign with which God had shown him his path in life. That frightened him.