‘I do not deserve all that you and Dame Lucie have done for me,’ Beatrice said. ‘I have sinned against God and caused so much pain.’
Owen took the seat near the foot of the bed. ‘I am glad to see you so recovered.’
Michaelo stationed himself beneath the window.
Lucie placed a table in front of him, then returned to her own seat across the pallet. ‘You wished to unburden yourself to my husband,’ she said.
Knowing she must still be weak, Owen considered what would be most useful to hear. ‘Could you begin with the plans for yesterday morning?’
‘I was to leave the city by Micklegate Bar with my maidservant and a manservant, going to my family home. Gavin would send for me when he was settled in Leeds under a new name.’
Interesting detail. ‘Why did that not happen?’ Owen asked.
She shook her head, her face so pale Owen thought she might faint. Lucie bent to her, asking what she needed.
‘To begin afresh with dear Guthlac. To have the chance to refuse his gift of children.’
‘His gift of children?’ Owen asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
Her fingers sought the beads in her lap. ‘My husband knew he could not give me children. He offered an alternative, to lie with his son.’
Owen glanced at Lucie and knew by the subtle shift away from the woman that she shared his surprise about Guthlac’s part in the triangle. But that was a priest’s concern, not his.
‘I saw that he meant it as a kindness, and – God help me, I took it as such.’ Her voice broke. ‘How I came to think it a little thing, confessed and washed away afterward– I knew it was wicked. I knew we would pay dearly. But for it to be our babies, my Geoff and Mary, my sweet ones … How they burned with the fever. As if to burn out the sin in which they were conceived.’ She sobbed. ‘They died in my arms.’
Lucie took her hands. ‘You should rest.’
‘No. I must tell you now. I fear I won’t find the courage again. I’ve never confessed my sin because I could not promise not to sin again. I knew that I would. I missed my babies. I prayed for another. And I loved him.’
Owen gave her a moment before asking, ‘What was Bernard’s part in all this? Where was he to have been yesterday?’
Her face had flushed with the confession, and now the color rose sharply. ‘When Gavin brought him to the house– From that moment I feared for myself and my husband. Gavin assured me that Bernard understood my husband’s condition far better than the Riverwoman. He made much of that in front of the leech. But in truth Gavin and my husband had forbidden Dame Magda in our home long before Bernard came. They feared she knew of our deception, that the children could not be Guthlac’s, that their deaths of the pestilence were our punishment for our grievous sin.’
‘You know little of Dame Magda if you believed that.’ Lucie’s voice was quiet, not accusing.
‘But what was Bernard’s part in this?’ Owen asked.
‘For his services he was to receive a goodly sum. I do not know how much.’
‘He, too, would go to Leeds?’
‘No. Gavin assured me that he would be no part of our new life. I realized he did not trust Bernard, and the man knew it. He confronted Gavin. They had a row the night before the funeral. Loud. Ugly. Gavin said he sent him away.’
‘Did you see him leave?’ Owen asked.
‘No. But Gavin told me he did.’
‘We found the leech rolled up in a rug in the cart, drugged with the physick he had used on your husband.’
‘Gavin did that? No. Is the leech–’
‘He is recovering, and will answer for his crimes.’
Clutching the beads, she crossed herself. ‘God forgive us.’
‘What of Gavin’s relationship with Gemma Toller?’ Lucie asked. ‘Did you know about her?’
‘Not until that night, the night before our departure. Gavin gave me brandywine to calm me. The pains were coming. He said it was grief and worry. But all would be well. I should rest before the journey. I remember the pains worsening, but then I slept. When I woke in the early morning, before light, the pain was much, much worse. I called for help. She came. Sam’s widow. She wore one of my gowns and I thought it must be a dream. She shook me and told me to dress, it was time to depart. She tore the bedclothes away. When she saw the blood she ran from the room. Two men pulled me out of the bed and carried me out to the garden. I thought they meant to bundle me in the cart but they put me in the shed. I could not– Did Gavin never mean to wed me? Did our children mean nothing to him? Why was Sam’s widow there?’
Owen had heard Gemma’s side. That she had always been the one meant for Gavin. But how to tell this woman the truth? He could not, not now.
‘I am grateful for all you have told me, Dame Beatrice. It will help me when talking to Gavin and Bernard.’ Owen glanced at Michaelo, who nodded that he was ready. ‘Rest now. When I feel I know the truth of the matter, we will speak again.’
Lucie handed Beatrice the bowl, urging her to drink deep.
The cruelty of Beatrice’s treatment slowed Owen’s steps as he turned toward the castle. When he snapped at a child racing past he judged himself too angry to confront Gavin Wolcott just yet. Instead he turned toward St Mary’s Abbey. The king’s men would prevent him from murdering Alan, but he might frighten him into confessing his part.
‘The infirmary?’ Michaelo looked doubtful.
‘Surely Brother Henry will permit you to perform your duty for me,’ said Owen.
With a shrug, the monk followed him to the abbey.
The infirmarian’s bleary eyes told a tale of a difficult patient.
‘Alan wakes?’ Owen asked.
‘Yes, God help us. When he understood where he was and why, I have never heard such language, spewing curses in ear-piercing shrieks as he fought against his restraints and accused us of sending him to his death. I quieted him with a soporific, but not so much that he cannot respond.’
‘Has he been questioned?’
‘By one of the king’s men, yes. He loudly denies assisting Monsieur Ricard. Says he has never heard the name, nor will he admit to being Alan Rawcliff. He answers only to “Master Bernard”.’
‘The king’s men believe him?’
‘No. They are eager to speak with you.’
‘I know little more than I did last night. Except that his physick poisoned the womb of Beatrice Wolcott, killing the child she carried and bringing the mother perilously close to death. Albeit her condition was worsened by her abandonment to suffer the miscarriage alone in a cold, dark, filthy shack.’
‘He did that?’
‘Not the abandonment. That is another’s crime. He is still in the infirmary?’
‘Sadly, yes. Abbot William refused my request to move him where he might be isolated and spare my other patients.’
Owen glanced round, saw three monastic patients, two of them elderly. ‘Poor men.’
‘I provided them with waxed cloths to place in their ears to dull the sound, and a sleeping tonic last night.’
‘You are a kind man.’
The monk’s usual gentle smile made a brief appearance. ‘I am called to heal, not to torment. But enough of my woes. You will wish to speak with Alan.’
‘I want a written record of his confession. Will you permit my secretary to attend me?’
The gentle eyes hardened. ‘You do not mean Brother Michaelo?’
‘I do.’ Owen held his gaze, gently, but firmly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Henry bowed. ‘For you and His Grace,’ he said.
Michaelo slipped quietly behind Owen, becoming his shadow as Henry showed them to a screened corner away from the windows looking onto the gardens. Standing before the narrow break in the screens was a muscular man in royal livery. He bobbed his head to Owen and Michaelo, standing aside to allow them through.