“I am after health, not wealth,” John said softly, keeping his eyes downcast. “But I did not start out to steal, Captain. I asked the Riverwoman if I might have the skin off the boy’s arm. She refused. Said it must be given a proper burial.”
“Her arrangement for the bones is an odd one, I’ll grant you that. But what did you want with the skin? And how did you know about the arm?”
John bit his lower lip, a naughty child explaining his behavior. “It is for a remedy – for afflictions of the skin. I must bind a piece of young, unblemished skin to my forehead for seven days and seven nights. At sunset on the seventh day I crawl the length of York Minster while chanting a Latin charm, and then I have a seventh son bury the skin that night – the seventh night.”
As his wife’s apprentice in the apothecary, Owen had heard many such remedies. “It sounds harmless enough; except that such charms usually call for the skin of a pig or some other flesh readily available.”
The clerk took a deep, shivery breath, crossed himself. “So it has all been for naught. Blessed Mary, Mother of God, forgive me my sin.” He rubbed his arm; his eyes glittered with tears.
“What did Magda tell you?”
John wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said that I must accept the truth, that my affliction is not of the skin, but affects every part of me. My body is in haste to grow old and expire. There is no cure for it.” John picked up the jug of ale and drank, then passed it to Owen. “But I thought, what harm was there in trying? The Lord might hear my prayer. Who was she to judge whether He would choose to bless me?” He sighed. “Now I pay for my arrogance.”
Owen understood. Well he knew how desperate the afflicted one was to put his body right. The loss of Owen’s eye had meant the loss of his world – no longer was he worthy to be Henry of Lancaster’s captain of archers. Even after Lancaster’s physician had declared him blind in his left eye, Owen had tortured himself with tests, thinking he’d seen a glimmer of light on the left. “When I first came to York, I hoped Magda might cure my blindness. But she told me that there was nothing more to be done.” He took a drink. “It was not easy to accept. She knew. She said I would ever after see her as partly to blame. And I do sometimes, God forgive me.”
“And why not blame her? She condemned me to sit and wait for an early death.”
“We all face death, John.”
The angry look surprised Owen. “You don’t understand. When an old man wrinkles and weakens into a shuffling gait, he thanks the Lord for a good life and looks forward to eternal rest. I am not ready for that. I have not yet lived.”
Owen pitied him. But surely it did him no good to brood. “Seems to me you’ve done a bit of living tonight, haven’t you now? Creeping out here, slinking round, attacking me.” He laughed, picked up the jug and drank again, waiting for an echo of laughter. But John had lain down and covered his head with his arm.
“What I’ve told you – about the pig’s skin – it simplifies things, doesn’t it?”
John shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t tell me how you learned about the arm, John.”
“A traveler. He delivered some items to the guild hall. He told me about the charm and said the Riverwoman would have what I needed.” The voice was muffled under the arm.
Suddenly Owen jumped up. “He was your a partner, wasn’t he? He was out there tonight.”
John lay very still.
Good Lord, he’d been so stupid. “I should have seen it was too easy. You were distracting me.”
“And all for naught,” the muffled voice whined.
“Not for your partner, you fool. He’s got the bones and a good head start.” Owen took the lantern and rushed out into the night. He shoved the flat stone lid off the jar and let it fall with a clatter while he trained the light on the inside. Empty. He shined the lantern out on the mud flat, but he knew it was useless. While he’d been playing the good Samaritan in the hut, the thief had taken the bones and escaped. He’d known Owen wouldn’t be listening, thinking he’d caught his thief – and injured him. Furious with himself, Owen picked up the stone lid and threw it into the river. He wanted to put his fist through the wall of the house, grab John Fortescue by the neck and throttle him – but what would be the point? John was the victim as much as he. Owen sat down on the bank and tried to calm himself.
When his mind cleared, he went inside, seeking answers.
John sat up, waiting for him, his eyes wide with fear.
“Why did your thief put Magda on her guard?”
“He didn’t know where she kept the bones, and he didn’t want to linger here, searching all those boxes and jars piled up against the house. He said she would watch the bones if we worried her, and then we’d know. He was clever.”
“Easy to be clever when you’re working with fools.” Owen sat down and glumly drained the jug of ale.
Owen went out to the rock as soon as he had word Magda was back. She sat on the bench beneath the serpent, mending a shoe. Without looking up, she said, “Magda knows the worst.”
He sank down beside her. “I failed you. I’ll make no excuses.”
“Thou wert there to protect the innocent fool, Bird-eye.”
“But the bones are gone. Sold by now, no doubt.”
Magda chuckled. “If only Magda might have seen the thief’s face at dawn, when he took out the bones and saw his treasure. Or woke to its smell.” She was overtaken by a bout of mirth.
Owen had a sinking feeling. How many people had fooled him? “What were they?”
“The bones of an old goat that strayed onto the mud flats and died.”
“And the bones for the bone man?”
“He came before Magda left.” She patted Owen’s knee. “Magda is not disappointed in thee. Thou hast done as Magda had hoped. John will heal, and he has seen the folly of his search for a miracle. The thief is gone, no more spying on Magda.”
“No doubt I’ve learned something, too, though I cannot see it. Why did you have me here?”
“If he had felt no danger, the thief would have examined the bones, Bird-eye, and spoiled Magda’s fun.”
“But what of poor John?”
“Fortescue respects thee. He will not wish to appear a fool to thee again, so he will behave now. So.” She snipped the thread, squinted up at Owen. “How dost thou like working for Magda? A nice change from politics?”
Owen rubbed his scar. “In truth I’d rather a month on the road for the archbishop than another night in your hut.”
Magda turned the mended shoe inside out, tugged it on, stood up, hopped, nodded. “Suit thyself, Bird-eye,” she said with a shrug and went inside.
Owen did not leave at once, but sat there, staring down at the rising tide, trying to remember what it had been like to be able to see upstream as well as down. At last he gave up. A useless exercise. That had been another life. He headed for home.