‘A long day ahead for both of us,’ she said.
‘You will be in the shop?’
‘Yes. Jasper will not have Alisoun to help.’
‘You are glad to return to your work?’
She kissed his neck. ‘Yes and no.’
He turned to hold her close and kiss her mouth, her cheeks. Laughing, she pushed away.
‘We have guests.’
‘I heard voices.’
‘George, Alfred, Brother Michaelo.’
‘Quite a company. Any news?’
‘The missing child was found, frightened, but unharmed, and returned to his aunt, God be thanked. But Lettice Brown has not been seen. Michaelo will tell you more of that.’
Assignments agreed upon, Owen set off for Thomas Graa’s home, Brother Michaelo accompanying him as his scribe and his extra eyes and ears. Owen had come to appreciate the monk’s powers of perception and his knowledge of the wealthy and the powerful in the city and shire. On the way Owen asked whether Archdeacon Jehannes had said anything of a letter written by Archbishop Neville.
‘Which would mean his secretary, my cousin Leufrid.’ Michaelo sniffed. ‘Unholy beggar.’ Hard feelings from an old wound. When Michaelo had first come to England from Normandy a large sum of money had been entrusted to Dom Leufrid, with which he was to buy his cousin a place in an influential abbey. Instead, Leufrid had pocketed the money though he claimed he’d spent it in gaining Michaelo’s entry into St Mary’s, York. ‘Without ever having met Dame Magda he accepted the word of an anonymous letter writer complaining of her sorcery in the city, expressing his fear that God would look away when the pestilence arrived in York.’
So Carn had been right, the archbishop had sent such a letter. ‘Did Dom Jehannes have any thoughts as to the letter writer?’
‘He says he does not. But there is the matter of a letter he wrote to the Bishop of Lincoln while we were at court asking what he knew of Bernard the leech.’
‘The occasion of that inquiry?’
‘Whispers of just such accusations regarding Dame Magda and then her daughter, Dame Asa, originating from the man, though apparently he denies it. And no, Dom Jehannes did not speak with him. So he was curious. But he’s not heard from Bishop Bokyngham.’
‘What was the essence of Neville’s missive?’
‘He merely quoted gossip and warned against women who weave charms and spells while calling themselves midwives.’ Michaelo bobbed his head as they passed several friars haggling with a merchant.
‘No specific orders?’
‘No. Just spreading rumors.’
‘Jehannes’s reaction?’
‘He doubted the authenticity. He has written to His Grace, enclosing a copy of the letter and sent it by a messenger who is to deliver it directly to Archbishop Neville and no other, particularly not Leufrid.’ A little smile. ‘I wrote it out for him in a fair hand.’
Owen grinned. ‘Well done. Were there any specifics cited?’
‘As is his wont he added a positive suggestion, urging the revival of barefoot processions in the parish churches on Wednesday mornings.’
To Owen’s mind the processions would fan the flames of fear, but he could see the benefit in the comfort such expressions of penance might bring and said nothing.
‘I will bring you a copy of the letter when I write up today’s report, Captain. Suffice to say none of it is believable.’ Although Michaelo had not always approved of Dame Magda, he held her in high regard ever since the late Archbishop Thoresby had insisted on her being the healer by his side in his final illness. She had given the archbishop much comfort and ease in his last days.
They continued in companionable silence, Owen noticing the temper of the city, what seemed as usual, what suggested a fearful undercurrent. Michaelo’s short cape with hood protected him from the gentle rain and shrouded his face, but Owen could see that his eyes also followed passersby with quiet interest.
‘I had forgotten about the grave in your garden,’ Michaelo said, quietly. ‘I came upon Dame Lucie kneeling beside it this morning. Thinking she was tending a flower bed I approached, but she was weeping. I regret disturbing her.’
Owen took a breath before he spoke. The grave of her first husband and their child. Thoresby had granted her permission to bury Nicholas Wilton in the garden that had been his masterwork. Indeed, he had arranged for the ground to be consecrated. Before his death he had instructed Jehannes to move the tiny coffin of her firstborn, Martin, there as well, a gift Owen had feared would be more curse than blessing. ‘Martin was an infant when the pestilence took him. He has been in her thoughts of late.’
Michaelo crossed himself. ‘I will light a candle this evening.’
‘Bless you.’ Owen said no more, overcome by the image of his beloved kneeling in the soft rain tending the grave. He remembered her fear when their children burned with fever in late autumn, a depth to it that he prayed he did not come to understand, his own terror being overwhelming. The fear he’d experienced in battle was nothing compared to that he had felt for his children. Moving out of the way of a cart brought him back to the present.
Not far beyond the crossing for Ouse Bridge with all its bustle and business the city seemed to fall away as Castlegate opened into beautiful gardens. Thomas Graa had carved out a city manor near his warehouse at King’s Staithe, the house surrounded by gardens of graceful trees, well-kept flower and herb beds, and meandering walkways that continued across Castlegate, tumbling down to the bank of the Foss.
‘Beware a mayor who so flaunts his wealth,’ Michaelo said. A peculiar remark for one who wore finely tailored robes except when ministering to the poor.
A servant answered the door, bowing them in, inviting them to wait in the screens passage. Family activity could be heard in the hall beyond, a child demanding that his parents clout a servant who denied him a second helping, a woman trying to reason with him in a tight voice. Michaelo muttered something that Owen did not strain to hear, for someone approached, calling out for wine in his parlor. Three cups. The servant returned from round the carved wooden screens to lead them into the hall, directing them down the side, well away from the family gathered near the hearth – children, two young women, an older woman, several hounds lounging about their feet.
Another wall of wooden screens, solid, so as to afford some privacy, enclosed Thomas Graa’s parlor, a room with a large table and several high-backed chairs, a shelf behind the most cushioned chair holding rolls of documents and piles of tally sticks. Graa arrived as Michaelo set his wax tablet and stylus on the table. He was a compact man, though tending toward portly in the midsection, with bushy light brown hair surrounding a bald spot, nails trimmed, hands pink and soft. When he moved, he gave off a scent of rosewater.
‘A scribe? Is that necessary?’ Though irked, he spoke in his usual soft, melodious voice.
‘Knowing I can trust Brother Michaelo to record what he hears, I can devote all my attention to you,’ Owen said, matching the calm, friendly tone.
The mayor gave him a nod, his expression shifting between satisfaction and uncertainty. After the courtesies, in which Graa asked after the prince’s health and expressed his relief that Owen had not lingered at the royal court, he spoke of the damage to his warehouse the previous evening and asked whether the fire-starters had been apprehended. He did not ask about casualties, neither did he express concern about those who had lost their homes and their few possessions.
‘You have heard that Lettice Brown is missing?’ Owen asked. ‘That hers and several other homes were destroyed?’