The shop records. Lucie had not thought of them till now. The Archdeacon had said Geoffrey had attacked Nicholas and left him for dead. Then Nicholas had been wounded. Perhaps she could find a reference to it in the records. Her father-in-law had been as meticulous as Nicholas in recording all transactions. Might there not be an entry in the log for dressing a wound, for a salve to quicken the healing?
She sat up, waking Melisende, who hissed and moved with slow dignity to Lucie's feet and began circling in preparation for lying down in a new spot. Lucie disturbed her once more as she pulled her feet up and out onto the cold floor. The old shop records were kept up here in their bedchamber, in a heavy oak chest beneath the front window. She lit the oil lamp from the spirit lamp, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and went over to the chest.
It was Lucie's wedding chest, and her mother's before her. Out of this chest Lucie had pulled mementos of childhood and later when she carried Martin. How happy she had been. God had smiled down on her, allowing her joy. And in his short life Martin had given her much joy. Through him she had remembered her own girlhood, had seen her own mother, with her dark hair and pale eyes, bent over the chest, bringing out treasures, many of them gifts from Geof, her handsome knight. He had brought Lucie presents, too. A carved doll with silken hair, a small cart in which he pulled her through the maze. He had the sunniest smile and the gentlest voice. . And Nicholas had poisoned him? The thought burned in the pit of Lucie's stomach. She told herself she had no time to dwell on that now.
She lifted out an armful of sewn books, each painstakingly illustrated on its cloth cover with an unusual herb, and set them aside. These were Nicholas's. Beneath them were older, leather-bound books, their covers dry and cracking. Lucie leafed through them, pausing over meticulous sketches of astrological signs, heavenly portents. Paul Wilton, her father-in-law, had been more interested in that part of his work than in the botanical work that Nicholas delighted in. She found it confusing to follow her father-in-law's chronology’ he would go through several books and then go back and fill in blank areas in all of them before moving on to a fresh book. Or sometimes he would interrupt one book to return to another. Lucie was uncertain what date she sought, though she knew it had to be within the range of her mother's marriage and the time Geoffrey was in York. She knew that Geoffrey had come after she was born. She'd asked her Aunt Phillippa about that long ago, when she'd had a romantic idea that she might be Geoffrey's daughter. 'Oh no, my little love, you are my niece, you are Robert's child. Never doubt that.'
Her Aunt Phillippa did not understand how lovely it had been, imagining that she was the child of her mother's happiness, that her father was the fair-haired knight who made her mother laugh. She did not want to be the daughter of the grim man who shouted and called her 'little lady.' It hurt her more than her father's scolding that Sir Robert never said her name. As if he could not be bothered to remember it. It had frightened her. If her father could forget her, God could, too. Geoffrey had remembered her name. And her favourite colour. And secrets she'd told him. .
Lucie shook her head. She had sat and dreamt over the same notebook long enough that needles prickled in the hand poised to turn the page, and one of her feet had gone to sleep. She picked up the record books that she guessed covered the years of her mother's marriage, and moved over to the table and chair by the garden window.
Slowly she made her way through the books, pausing at all mention of 'N’ which was Paul Wilton's code for Nicholas. There were no complete names in the records, just one or two initials, enough to distinguish one customer or supplier from another. Most of the entries mentioning Nicholas referred to his purchase of cuttings and seeds for the garden. Occasionally, more frequently as time went by, Nicholas helped his father in the shop. His responsibilities grew.
And then she found it. An entry about the time of her mother's death. She had almost stopped before she reached it. 'MD cauterised wound, bandaged. Stayed the night to see what N's eyes looked like when he woke. Left salve and tisane. AA, D'Arby, and DP agree N has done his penance.' And in the accounts were entered a generous payment to MD for services rendered and a gift to the minster fund, the size of which made Lucie uneasy. For surely 'AA' was the Archdeacon, D'Arby was her father, and 'DP' Dame Phillippa. They agreed that Nicholas had done his penance for what? What sin required such a large offering to the minster fund? Did it have something to do with her mother's death? And who was 'MD'?
Owen woke at dawn from a light drowse that had taken most of the night to achieve. His stomach burned and his head felt crowded with demons chattering incessantly in voices pitched to hysteria. Too many questions, few answers, too many constraints. He could not exhume Montaigne, he could not question Lucie or she would know he suspected her, he could not question Nicholas because the man was dying. Anselm was a madman. Thoresby — what of John Thoresby? The comfortable, confident Lord Chancellor of England and Archbishop of York. Sent Owen out to inquire into his ward's death, yet Owen felt the man pretended ignorance where he knew the facts. Why? Did Thoresby not trust Owen? If not, then what was Owen doing here? Not that he was certain anything would be proved by exhuming Montaigne, but for Thoresby to so summarily deny him. .
Such thoughts got him nowhere. He must think where he might get some answers. He needed to talk with someone who knew something of Lady D'Arby, Montaigne, and Nicholas. Bess had not lived long enough in York to know anything but rumours about that time.
Magda Digby. It was a long shot, but Owen suspected that little occurred in York that the Riverwoman did not hear about. He applied some salve to the eye, put on his patch and his boots, and crept out of the inn. He could speak with her and be back before Lucie was ready to open the shop.
After her wakeful night, Lucie was anxious to send Owen for her Aunt Phillippa. She put away the records and slept for a while, then rose shortly after dawn and broke her fast with Tildy while they discussed the girl's chores for the day. By then Lucie expected Owen, but he did not come. She checked for him out at the woodpile. The air was frosty, and snow clouds glowered overhead. Under the holly hedge, spring crocuses pushed green shoots through the thinning snow. It made her heart glad to see the first sign of spring. But her irritation returned when she found no trace of Owen anywhere in the garden. Now that she had resolved to send for her aunt, she could not bear the delay. She would go to the York Tavern and fetch Owen. Tildy could listen for Nicholas and come for her if he woke.
Tom was measuring the contents of the casks. He looked up with a smile when she entered. 'Lucie Wilton. Welcome, neighbour.' He noticed her agitated state. Is it Nicholas? Is he worse?'
She nodded. 'I want to send Owen for my Aunt Phillippa’
'And you thought to find him here? Nay, he was off at first light.'
Bess's voice rang out from up above, barking orders.
'Do you have any idea where he went?' Lucie asked.
Tom scratched his beard, then shook his head. 'He said naught to me. I didn't think but he was coming to you. Go on up and see if Bess knows aught.'
'She sounds busy.'
'Oh, aye. Trying to put Owen's room to rights. She won't rest till fire is scrubbed away. But go up. She'd want to see you’
Bess stood in the doorway of the small room, hands on hips, one toe tapping. 'I don't know, Kit. I just don't know what to do with you. You're all elbows, girl. Nothing is safe when you're near.'