Poor Digby. Anselm was sorry for that. He wished he had not had to kill Digby.
Fifteen
Tom's words haunted Owen the next morning. Made a mess of it. Aye, he'd done that. Owen walked through the awakening city to Holy Trinity Church. Overnight the wind had changed, bringing warmer air that had turned the refrozen streets to slush. He slogged through the icy mush, which seeped through his boots and made his feet ache with cold. Chill mist clung to his face and neck. Wretched North Country. How much colder must Digby have been, plunging into the rushing waters of the Ouse. Owen shivered and stepped into the candle-lit church. It smelled of beeswax, smoke, but, most of all, of damp stone. The flickering candle flames bothered his eye. He moved off to the side, into the darkness.
The priest's heart was not in the words he spoke over the coffin. He acknowledged the need for Summoners, spoke of God's grace in pulling Digby up so far from his beginnings, out of the vermin city and into the minster. Saying this, the priest cast uneasy glances at Magda Digby, who stood on the other side, glaring at the small group of mourners. Across the church stood Archdeacon Anselm's clerk, representing the Archdeacon. Near Owen was Jehannes, representing the Archbishop. Widow Cartwright, draped in black, stood directly in front of the pulpit. Perhaps ten more, mostly the white-haired women who attend every service in a parish, made up the congregation. Their responses echoed hollowly in the stony space.
Out among the graves, the river mist cast a proper pall over the mourners. The priest said a few words, dropped dirt on the grave, and withdrew. To a warm breakfast, no doubt. The others departed, all but Magda Digby, who knelt by the gaping hole to drop dried leaves, twigs, flowers on the coffin. She whispered as she worked.
Owen watched, filled with a heaviness he could not account for. He'd made a mess of it. That must be what bothered him. He'd been clumsy, obvious. Though unpleasant, he could live with that. What he could not abide was that his ineptitude had cost a man's life. Even in war, one despised the manoeuvre that cost more lives than necessary. But Digby was no soldier. This was not war. No one should have to die here for Owen's mistakes. He'd been wrong to use Digby. Wrong. Lazy. Arrogant. He had considered the man a thing to be used. A Summoner. Already dirty. Already guilty.
Magda, one gnarled hand pressed to her lower back, one on the muddy ground, struggled to rise. Owen offered her his hand. Dark, shadowed eyes peered at him.
'Thank ye. Magda knows about thee. Potter explained. Thou'rt Thoresby's man, just as Magda said.'
Owen looked around, worried that someone might hear. He saw no one, but the mist could deceive. 'I am Wilton's apprentice,' he said loud enough to reach all ears.
'Oh, aye’ She chewed on her gums, considered him. 'Magda's lad helped thee. Potter judged thee a good man.' She nodded, patted Owen on the shoulder, and shuffled away.
'I am sorry about his death’ Owen said to her retreating back.
She glanced back over her rounded shoulder. 'Thee and me. The others care not a whit.' She chewed air, shrugged. Totter should've stayed on the river with Magda. She named him for the craft she meant him for. Summoners are dead men’ She hitched up her cloak and shuffled off into the mist.
As he watched Magda disappear, he considered her words. She believed the Archdeacon's interest in her son was to blame for his death. The Archdeacon. He'd tried to get rid of Owen. Had he rid himself of his Summoner when he found out the man was asking questions about Montaigne? Could Owen have prevented his death if he'd told him that Wulfstan had gone to the Archdeacon? Owen prayed that was not so.
Archbishop Thoresby, Lord Chancellor of England, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 'You were wise to come to me about this, Campian. It would not do to share your Infirmarian's concern with others. Or yours’
'I knew of your interest in Fitzwilliam's death. But the Summoner questioning Brother Wulfstan. That disturbed me’
'You say Archer knew of the Summoner's visit’
'He did’
'I question his choice of assistant’ '
'He did not say he had sent Digby’
Thoresby bowed his head a moment, thinking. He either trusted Archer or he did not; he could not support him piecemeal. 'You might encourage Brother Wulfstan to speak with my man.'
'He distrusts the Welshman.'
Thoresby raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps the Infirmarian shows better judgement than the Archbishop.'
They smiled at his little joke.
'I will encourage Brother Wulfstan.'
'It is interesting that Anselm's Summoner would express such interest in Montaigne. And no questions about my ward?'
'Nothing about Fitzwilliam.'
The Archbishop closed his eyes again. It disturbed him that he had forgotten the knight's connection with Lady D'Arby. This was an intricate knot he was untying. All because of the rascal Fitzwilliam. How odd if his ward had been an innocent victim. Much was odd in this matter. The Summoner had involved himself. Why? And now he, too, was dead. Questioned the Infirmarian, dined with the Archdeacon, and then drowned. A man who had grown up on the river, drowned. Thoresby did not like it. It meant trouble for the minster.
'Why does Brother Wulfstan distrust Archer?'
The Abbot winced apologetically. 'I confess I have no idea. He keeps to himself. We are quiet men. It is the rule.'
'Tell me this — has my man Archer visited the infirmary?'
'Yes. He carried a letter from Master Roglio, the old Duke's physician.'
'Roglio is also my physician.'
Campian flushed, realising the implication that had escaped him until now. 'And yours. I am quite an innocent in these matters, Your Grace. But of course your ward died in Wulfstan's care.'
'I do not think your Infirmarian is a murderer, Campian. Perhaps not as sharp as he once was, but no killer.'
Campian wiped his brow. 'God be thanked. He is my oldest friend.' He sipped his wine. His hand trembled. 'But then you knew Archer visited — '
'He told me nothing of the visit, so I wondered. Wulfstan's distrust might simply reflect his own feelings of guilt, his suspicion that Archer was investigating the deaths.'
Campian nodded. Then, in a tentative voice, with his eyes averted, he said, 'There is another matter, Your Grace.'
Mon Dieu, another little scandal?
'These questions about Montaigne's grave. You would not mean to exhume him?'
'Why should we do that?'
'To look for signs of poisoning?'
What now? Had they sold the body for relics? Thoresby did not know Campian as well as he should. The Abbot had been in place when Thoresby rose to Archbishop. Campian was not one of Thoresby's men. He seemed forthright, but Thoresby knew many accomplished actors. He did not want any chance of scandal. 'I do not believe even Roglio knows enough about these fleshy shells to pronounce a cause of death without qualifying every step in his analysis. It is the soul that reveals the man. The deed.'
Campian wiped his brow again. 'I am much relieved. The peace of St. Mary's has been disrupted too much already. The two deaths did not go unnoticed. Some of my boys were ordered home. Several of the older brothers have become reluctant to use Wulfstan's balms for their aching joints. Many dread the spring bloodletting more than usual. Poor Wulfstan knows this and is distraught. It seems only Brother Michaelo still frequents the infirmary.'
'Michaelo? I do not know him.'
'A pretty young man. Lazy. Always devising ways to escape work. Which reminds me of another item. Michaelo was in the infirmary when the Summoner came to speak with Wulfstan, And later that day he asked permission to visit the Archdeacon on family business. His family has donated considerable sums for the Hatfield chapel. They seek the King's favour.'