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'The brandywine and blanket won't be necessary now’ Lucie said.

Bess looked at Owen. 'It's the Archdeacon's blood on the winding sheet?'

Owen nodded. 'Aye’

Bess was quiet a moment. 'The Archbishop's men are here with the coffin. Phillippa and I will wrap Anselm in his own filth and get a clean sheet for Nicholas.' She nodded to herself, turned to leave. Then turned back. 'And you two must deal with the Archbishop's men.'

Lucie had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Owen caught up her hands. They were like ice. He held them. 'I don't know what to do.' Lucie stared at her hands in his, her eyes wide with the numbness that Owen had seen time and again in his men when they had fought too long on a battlefield with the dead all about them, slipping on the blood and entrails of their comrades and their enemies, and suddenly it all became too much, their minds and hearts could deal with no more. 'I don't know what to do,' Lucie whispered.

'For the moment we must go downstairs,' Owen said, and led her by the hand.

The Archbishop's men rose, and Owen motioned them to sit back down. 'Mistress Wilton needs brandy-wine. I could use some, too.'

Twenty-five

Aftermath

Wulfstan heard a pair of boots and an accompanying pair of sandals on the stone floor of the chapel. They paused in the doorway, then both came forward. Gold chains rattled richly. Wulfstan withdrew his senses, returning to his meditation on the cross, which he echoed in his posture, lying prostrate on the stone floor before the altar, arms outspread. The cross, Christ's agony, mankind's salvation. Salvation. Because of that selfless act, man could hope for salvation, no matter how grievous his sin.

He struggled to keep his mind on the cross, but discipline did not come easily to Wulfstan. He floated, his thoughts drifting up, over, around him, never quite engaging him, just brushing him with random strands. It was a pleasant feeling that he found impossible to resist. But he tried. He had a vague idea that he should not be comforted, that he'd done something unforgivable, though at the moment he could not remember what it was. When he tried to remember, he became frightened and shied away from the effort. 'Brother Wulfstan, can you hear me?'

It was a quiet, unfamiliar voice. Deep, resonant. Wulfstan liked the voice. But he did not answer. To speak would break the bubble in which he floated. Why could they not leave him alone?

'Wulfstan, the Archbishop is here to speak with you.'

His Abbot's voice. High-pitched with tension. An unpleasant voice. Wulfstan preferred the other.

'He wishes to ask you about Lucie Wilton.'

Blue eyes. A gentle touch. A smile. Lucie Wilton. Wulfstan shivered. The bubble in which he floated dipped precipitously, then righted itself. Lucie Wilton stirred an unpleasant strand of memory. He did not want to think about her.

'Wulfstan?'

Why would they not go away?

'Nicholas Wilton is dead, Wulfstan. We know he poisoned your friend Montaigne. Did Lucie Wilton have a hand in that?'

Montaigne. Gentle pilgrim. Darkness. Merciful Mother Mary, that was it. That was the horrible deed for which he could not be absolved. Not with any amount of penance. His fault. He should have known. It was his duty to know. He had murdered his friend. He had failed him. Arrogance. And dear Lucie Wilton. Could she have had a hand in the poisoning? Or known and not warned him? Could she have cold-bloodedly looked away as his friend was poisoned?

'No!' The bubble burst. His heart jolted. He clawed the stones, struggling to rise. Strong arms came to his aid. Wulfstan opened his eyes and stumbled, blinded by the flickering light of the altar candles. The strong arms steadied him.

'Come, sit down on this bench.' It was the Archbishop who spoke with the pleasant voice and helped him so gently. Thoresby himself. The Lord Chancellor's chain of office shone on his chest. He smelled richly of scented oils.

'I must know the character of the woman, Brother Wulfstan. You must tell me about her.'

Michaelo sometimes smelled like this. Spicy, musky, flowery all at once, A vain young man. But harmless, Wulfstan had thought. Until Michaelo had tried to poison him. Had come perilously close to succeeding.

'Why me? Why would he want to kill me?' Wulfstan wondered aloud.

'Wulfstan.' Abbot Campian filled his vision. 'You are wandering.' To Thoresby, Campian said, 'He is not fully recovered. But he begged to be allowed to come to chapel and do penance.'

'Penance? For what sin, Brother Wulfstan?'

Wulfstan hung his head. 'I should have recognised the nature of the concoction. I should have recognised the symptoms of aconite poisoning. Your ward should not have died. Or Geoffrey.' He wept.

Dame Phillippa and Bess had persuaded Lucie and Owen to go and sleep at the inn. They would prepare Nicholas and sit with him. One of the Archbishop's men guarded the inn, another the shop. The other two had gone to inform Thoresby of the Archdeacon's death.

Owen looked in on Lucie before going to his own room. She stood at the window, her arms wrapped tightly around her, as if braced for the next blow.

'You must try to sleep.'

'When I close my eyes, I see Nicholas in Anselm's arms.' Her voice was full of tears. 'I cannot bear it.'

Owen stood for a moment, uncertain whether he was welcome. But he could not leave her. 'Come. Lie down. I'll talk with you until you sleep.'

She let him lead her to the bed. 'Tell me how you met the Archbishop.'

'No. That would keep you wakeful.' Instead, he told her about his archers, naming each one and describing him. Lucie was soon asleep.

Owen nodded off in the chair beside her.

Lucie awoke at the cock's crow, disoriented. 'What is this place?'

Owen jerked awake.

'What is this place?' she repeated.

'The best room at the York. We came here last night.'

'The Archdeacon’ Lucie whispered, touching her head gingerly. Bruises had appeared on her face and throat, revealing to Owen that they had struggled more than he'd guessed.

The sight of the bruises filled Owen with a rage that killing Anselm had not satisfied: He must master this. 'Lie still.' He pressed a cold, damp cloth to Lucie's head. 'You fought bravely.'

Her eyes looked beyond Owen. 'I wanted to kill him’ she said. 'I was angry with you for stealing the kill from me.'

'It is all over now’

'What am I to do?'

'Do?'

'I have lost everything. My husband. The shop. Everything.'

'I have told the Archbishop you are innocent.'

'That will not matter.'

'I will do my best.'

Lucie pushed the cloth away and sat up with effort. 'You will continue in the Archbishop's service?'

'I may wind up in his dungeon in the Old Baile.'

'Why? You came to my defence. Why would you wind up in his dungeon for that?'

'He did not want Anselm disposed of in the city. He wanted it to happen away from witnesses.' And he'd already questioned Owen's loyalty.

'So you should have let Anselm kill me?'

'Of course not. It is a matter of whether His Grace believes me.' Owen freshened the cloth and put it back on her forehead. 'I saw the knife slash on Anselm's face. That took daring.'

'I was driven. I wanted to blind him and then stab him in the heart. You see how successful I was. I'd never used a knife on someone before. It wasn't — His skull — ' She coughed, doubled over. He held her head over a pan as she retched.

John Thoresby removed his chain of office and his cloak. Blood did not easily wash out of fur. Then he bent down to examine his Archdeacon. The neck had been neatly snapped. Archer was tidy and quick. It pleased the Archbishop. It also disturbed him. He had wanted this to happen, yes. But not in York. Not so close to the minster. Or if it had to happen in the city, then within his liberty, where he had jurisdiction. Not that anyone involved would talk. But in the middle of the city. Some soul, unable to sleep, might have seen the Archdeacon arrive. Seen the commotion. And for whom had Owen murdered Anselm? For his lord, or for the pretty widow?