'Suddenly she gave a cry and stumbled from her chair. Robert and I both jumped up. She clutched her stomach. He caught her as she fell. She haemorrhaged. Lucie, my love, you screamed at the blood soaking your father's arm, your mother's dress. I grabbed you and hurried you to your parents' chamber and yelled for Cook to stay with you.
'Amelie had overdosed, thinking to rid herself of the evidence of her unfaithfulness as quickly as possible, before Robert noticed. A toxic dose. She said she felt nothing in her hands and feet. They were like ice. She was terrified. I do not believe she meant to kill herself.'
'But Nicholas had warned her’ Lucie said. 'And so had you.'
The arrogance of youth. She thought it might kill a weaker person, but not her. I think if she'd meant to kill herself she would have taken all that was left. To make sure of the job. But she left much of it.
'She died in Robert's arms. He looked so lost and frightened. "What has happened here?" he asked me. What could I do? I told him.
'He was stricken by the betrayal. Geoffrey had been Robert's squire when he brought Amelie to York. He'd watched over Amelie on the crossing. Robert realised he'd brought them together.
'He asked me to leave him. He did not want me to see him weep. I went out to the garden. Geoffrey found me out there. He'd waited for Amelie in the maze for hours. Dear God, all the evenings she'd checked there to see if he'd returned. And this one. If she'd gone out there.' Phillippa's voice broke. She stared at the fire.
Lucie still clasped her hands tightly. 'When Cook fell asleep,' Lucie said, 'I sneaked down the ladder and found Sir Robert holding Maman and moaning. There was blood all over both of them. Maman's pretty gown was soaked. I touched her face. It felt wrong. Cold. Like a statue — not like Maman's face. And her hands were cold. I thought it was because they dangled down near the floor. I tried rubbing them. Sir Robert shooed me away. Like a dog. As if I had no right there. He did not tell me she was dead. Just shooed me away. I knew from the blood someone had been hurt. I thought he'd stabbed her. I thought he'd found out about Geof and hurt her so she would not see him any more. I hated him.'
'But I told you Robert was not the cause of her death’ Phillippa said.
'You told me the baby killed her. And Sir Robert was her husband, so I thought it was his baby. Even when they whispered at the convent, I was sure they were wrong. Sir Robert hated her, and he killed her with his baby.'
Her aunt sighed. 'Geoffrey blamed Nicholas. He went for him, woke him in the night, beat him senseless, stabbed him, and left him for dead. Paul Wilton found his son on the shop floor. He did not want any gossip. He went for Magda Digby, knowing she would nurse Nicholas without comment. He had Archdeacon Anselm administer the last rites, knowing that he would not betray Nicholas. Between Anselm and Magda, Paul learned what had happened.
'He and the Archdeacon called on us at Freythorpe. Asked us what we meant to do about Nicholas's role in Amelie's death. My brother surprised us all by blaming himself for what had happened. He had already sent a messenger to the King to resign his post. He would go on pilgrimage to atone. He was a broken man. Nicholas, too. Geoffrey had disappeared, thinking he'd murdered Nicholas. Amelie was dead. It was too horrible. When Robert told me to take Lucie to the convent, I thought it best for her. To get away from the cursed house.'
'Why in Heaven's name did you let her marry Nicholas?' Owen asked.
'Have I not made it clear? He made a youthful mistake. I could not condemn him for the rest of his life.'
'But for Lucie he was a reminder of all this.'
'No’ Lucie said. 'I knew nothing of his part in it. To me he was from the good times, when Maman was well, when I was loved. And he promised a life of purpose.' She got up and opened the door, breathing in the chill night air. Phillippa and Owen watched her. After a while, Lucie quietly shut the door and turned back to them. 'But you were wrong to deceive me, Aunt Phillippa. And so was he.'
'You would never have accepted him if you knew.'
'Perhaps that would have been best.'
'No. He ensured a future for you, as I hoped he would, I wanted you to be free of the fears that bedevilled your mother. To marry in your class would have condemned you to the same life, fearing that you'd lose your husband's respect if you did not bear a son and heir. A second son for good measure. Fearing that should he do something treasonous or criminal you would lose everything, through no fault of your own. Fearing that he might die too soon and leave you as I was left, without a home, with no standing, always beholden. And to whom would you go for help? Once Robert was gone, you would have no home. You would be a ward of the court. Any money left you would be used up, and you would be sold to the highest bidder. That is the way.' Phillippa rose, caught herself as she wobbled with weariness. 'I saw Nicholas as a godsend’ She touched a trembling hand to her forehead.
Lucie helped her aunt to bed. As Lucie was leaving, Phillippa said, 'Do you see, Lucie? Nicholas is a good man.'
'He is still a murderer, Aunt Phillippa. Thrice over.'
Twenty — three
The reins were so wet they felt slimy in Anselm's fingers. But the unpleasant feeling did not last. The rain and cold numbed his extremities as the evening wore on. With every movement of his body he discovered a chill wetness. He shivered. He felt warmth only where his legs touched his sweating beast. His companion, Brandon, a burly novice from the border country, plodded on ahead, apparently unaffected by being soaked to the bone.
Anselm offered up the discomfort as penance for his sin of pride, his boldness in playing God by deciding who was to live and who to die. His Archbishop needed him, Thoresby was too great a man to be subjected to this journey, and Anselm would not complain.
In fact, his lord the Archbishop honoured Anselm in no small way by entrusting him with this mission. The benefice he was to negotiate in Durham would bring a great sum to the cathedral fund. The negotiation must be handled with care. Sir John Dalwylie might change his mind, bequeath the money elsewhere, and they would be left with nothing. It was for Anselm to impress on him the importance of the cathedral, the faith and thanksgiving it embodied, the indulgences it would gain for those who contributed.
His companion would be tucked away in a monastery nearby. Brandon could not be trusted to say the right thing. Or to be silent. He would be a liability in such delicate proceedings.
It puzzled Anselm that Abbot Campian had assigned Brandon to be his companion rather than Michaelo, who was shrewd and well spoken. Anselm had asked for Michaelo. He would be useful, the second son of an old, landed family. He had aristocratic sensibilities, which would stand him in good stead with Sir John. Campian said that Michaelo had not wished to go, had begged to stay in York because of his delicate health.
He was delicate. Like Nicholas. Dearest Nicholas. What Anselm would not give to see him as he had been. To stand with him in his garden. Taste this, crush this between your fingers, smell the essence, look at the colours, is this not God's munificence in miniature? Can we not see the glory of His creation in this garden? Nicholas was so full of love for God's creation.
Delicate, sensitive, soulful Nicholas. What might he have become, had he stayed at St. Mary's, protected from the world? He would have outshone the doddering Wulfstan. He would have created his beautiful garden within the abbey walls, safe from the temptations of the French whore. All the evil with which she'd poisoned Nicholas's life would have been directed elsewhere. He never would have met Amelie D'Arby. Her child would never have lured him into her lair. Lured him and sucked all life from him, all beauty, all grace. Poor Nicholas lay now in that tiny, stinking room like a fly sucked dry and tucked away in the web for future consumption. Succubus. Evil, wicked woman. Anselm was glad he had given her a taste of her eternity last night. Now she was burning in the truly terrible fire, the eternal fire. The potting shed had been nothing to that.