Although cold and gray, the afternoon was dry. Owen was out in a field behind the manor house shooting at a makeshift target. It was the best way he knew to relax, emptying his mind of everything but the bow, the arrow, the target, his arms, and sighting.
Owen had spent the morning helping Cecilia bleed Anna to rid her of the humours that kept bringing on fever. The young woman slept now, and Cecilia had gone to rest for a while. John had left for York in the morning, carrying a letter from Owen to Lucie. Owen wrote that he missed Lucie. He thanked her for sending John so quickly with the new information. It did, however, mean he must stay longer; how long he could not say. He explained the situation with Paul and Anna Scorby.
It had felt good to write down his thoughts, though Owen could not include everything, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. Indeed, as he rested against a tree, Owen wondered whether he had been wise to mention Paul Scorby in the letter. The man disturbed Owen. Out in the field, his type meant trouble because he would be unpredictable, reacting with violent anger to something that had been acceptable the day before. Owen could not tell from his brief observation what Scorby was after. He might be watching the manor. And, if so, might Scorby not waylay John and search him to see what messages were being sent away?
It was little details like this that made Owen’s work for the Archbishop frustrating. If one waited until confident that everything was considered before making a move, one would never move. And yet it was the little details that could prevent disaster. Life as a soldier had been so much simpler. Someone attacked, he shot him. Simple as that.
Owen cleared his mind and went through another round of arrows. Tonight, if Anna Scorby still rested quietly, without fever, Owen would mention the poisonous “remedy” to Cecilia. He must be clearheaded for that.
Father Cuthbert was sitting with Anna, praying with her, and Alfred and Colin were on guard at the gatehouse. So Owen and Cecilia were to dine alone. Cecilia wore a peaked headdress draped with a sheer, black veil that fell softly over her dark hair, coiled on either side of her face. No wimple hid her long, white neck. Owen wondered how Ridley had dared leave his wife alone most of their married life. She dressed simply, but the style became her. Became her very much indeed.
Owen told himself he must put aside such thoughts and concentrate on his business, which was not to endear himself to Cecilia Ridley. He permitted himself to keep to pleasant topics until they had finished their meal.
Then Owen put Ridley’s pack on the table. “As I told you, Mistress Ridley, this was found under Foss Bridge. We believe it is Gilbert’s. I hoped you might look through it and tell me if that is so. And, if it is, perhaps you can tell whether anything is missing.” Owen pushed the pack across to Cecilia.
She touched it cautiously, as if afraid to open it.
Was it possible that she had moved it yesterday, but not looked inside? Was she afraid what she might find? Or was she afraid that she would give something away in how she behaved about the pack? “I have looked inside,” he assured her. “The hand is not there, if that’s what frightens you.”
“The leather is damp.” Her voice was tense. She did not look up at Owen, but kept her eyes on the pack.
“It would be, yes.”
Cecilia opened the pack. When she drew out the shoes, her eyes filled with tears. “These are Gilbert’s.” She blinked, hugged the shoes to her.
Owen thought with a shiver how he would feel if they were Lucie’s shoes and she were lying dead in the chapel. It was the everyday things that would most remind him of her, particularly her shawl and her hair combs. “Take your time,” Owen said gently. “Try to remember what Gilbert usually carried in this pack.”
Cecilia placed the shoes on the table. “I do not know how helpful I will be. Gilbert packed for his trips himself.” She took out one of the pouches, opened it. Empty. “He carried money in this one, I think. So they did take his money.”
“Would he have been carrying a lot of money? Was he doing any business besides his business with the Archbishop?”
Cecilia shook her head. “I think not. He had been—He had handed most of the business over to our son, Matthew. I think this visit was only for the donation to the minster.”
“Why did he hand the business over to Matthew?” Owen had never been satisfied with Ridley’s explanation.
Cecilia played with the string on the empty money pouch. “Do you want to know the reason Gilbert gave me, or what I think?” Now she looked Owen in the eye.
Considering his dissatisfaction with Ridley’s explanation, Owen said, “I would like to know what you think.”
“I believe Gilbert had criticized John Goldbetter once too often. He felt Goldbetter was giving in to the King too much. Matthew worships the King and Prince Edward. He will be far more accommodating.”
“Did you and Gilbert talk about this?”
Cecilia shook her head. “Will told me,” she said softly. She set the money pouch aside and reached for another item. One at a time, Cecilia picked up the small pouches, opened them, looked inside, closed them, piled them to the side. Her hands trembled. When she had checked them all, Cecilia sat with her hands clenched together on the table before her.
“This spoon,” Owen said, picking it up. “Is the stone valuable?”
Cecilia glanced at it. “Not really. Gilbert thought it pretty. He had a London silversmith set it in the handle for him. When he was going to sup with Prince Edward.”
Owen nodded. “You have seen it all. Is anything missing that you can think of? Anything you know Gilbert carried that was neither in the pack they brought with his body or in this pack?”
Cecilia shook her head.
Owen figured he deserved the failure. He had tried to trick her, and it was not working. He must get to the point. “Mistress Ridley, there was another pouch that has been removed. It was half-filled with a powder that appeared to be a physick of some sort.”
She looked up, her eyes guarded. “A physick?”
“I presume the one your husband took when he dined with the Archbishop. The one he said you made up for him.”
Cecilia shook her head. “I have told you that I’d stopped making the physick when it did no good. Gilbert worsened.”
“And what was in that physick? You said it was to help him sleep?”
“Yes. And to calm his digestion. Mints of various kinds, and anise, raspberry leaf, a small amount of comfrey, some barks that my mother collected long ago…Is that anything like the physick you found in his pack?”
If she was lying, she was being clever, describing something completely unlike the incriminating powder. “No,” Owen said. “What we found was something meant to thicken the blood and keep the mind sharp. Not something for the digestion.”
Cecilia shook her head. “That is not what I had made for him.”
“Where else might he have gone for something like this?” Owen asked.
“I cannot say. But Gilbert was feeling unwell, and he was wasting away. I can understand why he would try someone else’s skill.” Cecilia frowned down at the pack, then up at Owen. “You say the powder was removed. Why?” She studied Owen’s face, then suddenly stood up, her right hand to her throat. “Are you playing a game with me? What are you after?”
“It was a perfectly harmless powder, except for one ingredient.” Owen paused, watching Cecilia’s reaction. It seemed forced, as if she were acting. And she would not look him in the eye. “The ingredient was arsenic,” he said.
“Arsenic,” she whispered, her eyes on her hands. “Dear God.” The long, slender hands pressed into the table.
“It was a small amount. Your husband was dying slowly. It would not have been a fierce pain, but dull and constant.”
“Gilbert,” Cecilia whispered.
“I must ask you. Did you fix the physick I have described for your husband?”
At last she raised her eyes to Owen and stared at him without blinking for a long moment. “Captain Archer, I told you I stopped making my mint remedy when I saw no improvement.” She took a deep breath. “I do not understand this. You said Gilbert’s throat had been slit. Like Will’s. Did you lie? Why would someone also poison him?”
“Your husband died as I told you he did. I do not think whoever slit his throat was the same person who was poisoning him. That would make no sense.”
Cecilia Ridley said nothing, just stared at Owen.
He wished more than anything to escape from those dark eyes full of pain, but he must persist. It would be worse to return to it later. “Then this powder your husband carried in his pack was not anything you had prepared for him?”
“I do not see how it could be,” Cecilia said quietly. She remained regarding him with those disturbing eyes.
The answer bothered Owen—because he did not believe her, or because it still felt evasive? He could not say. He managed to return her stare steadily for a time, wishing he was a better student of people. Could someone stare like she did and be lying? Or was a liar better able to do that than someone caught off guard, an innocent confronted with a horrible suspicion? Owen did not know why in Heaven’s name the Archbishop trusted him in such business. He was too ignorant of people.
Cecilia stood up. “I must tell Lisa to take some food up to Anna.”
“Forgive me for asking such questions,” Owen said. “I could think of no way to ask them without hurting you, and I had to ask them.”
“I understand,” Cecilia said without emotion. “I have not for a moment forgotten why you are here.” She left him.
Owen’s back and legs ached as if he had not moved throughout dinner. He stretched his legs out and poured more wine. He did not believe Cecilia, not about the physick. Why? He had believed her tears when she held her dead husband’s shoe. But there was more that disturbed him. When he’d come to Riddlethorpe the first time, he’d sensed in her a great unhappiness. She had not struck him as a woman who easily hid her emotions. But now she was subtle. She answered carefully. She used tears at the right moment. And she used those mysterious eyes and that silken hair to distract him. But, damn it, distract him from what?
He lifted his cup, drained it, and caught himself about to dash it to the floor. This business twisted all his muscles into tight bundles that wanted to spring loose. He wanted action. He wanted to take someone’s head and drive it into the wall.
But not Cecilia’s. He could not imagine doing harm to her.
And she knew it. She had made it so.
Bess had invited Lucie to come sup with her when she had closed the shop for the day. Tildy supported the idea with enthusiasm. “You must, Mistress Lucie. Mistress Merchet always cheers you up.”
With the disturbing item buried in the backyard and the frustrating meeting with Ambrose Coats on her mind, Lucie was in need of Bess’s good sense and cheer. She went over to the tavern.
They sat in the kitchen, close to the fire, Bess and Tom and Lucie, eating in companionable silence. Then, over cups of Tom’s ale, Lucie told them about her odd visitor.
“Blessed Mary, Mother of God,” Bess said, “what a thing to drop in your lap.”
“That is not what bothers me,” Lucie said. “I think Coats lied about something, but I cannot make out what. What do you know about him?”
Bess shrugged. “He’s a talented musician and a gentle man. He never drinks too much when he’s in the tavern, never gets noisy.” Bess looked at her husband. “There is little else to tell, eh?”
Tom considered that. “Nay. Except that he’s a private one. Not unfriendly, mind you. A good listener. And folk do say he’s a generous friend. Just quiet about himself.”
“Who are his friends?” Lucie asked.
“Well, you see, that’s it, isn’t it?” Tom said. “I could not say who his friends might be. I suppose his fellow waits—he seems friendly enough with them—but then again, they might know as little about him as I do.”
“Speaking of one who keeps his story to himself, our groom, John, has been showing an interest in the ladies of a sudden,” Bess said.
Tom and Lucie exchanged a puzzled look.
“What’s this to do with Coats?” Tom asked.
“It’s naught to do with him. It’s to do with John and Tildy.”
Lucie sat up. “Tildy?”
“The girl’s temperature rises at the sight of John, if you haven’t noticed, and he fans the flame just enough to keep it going. Wicked lad. When all the while he’s bedding down with a woman of experience.”
Tom almost choked on a mouthful of ale. “How do you know that? Are you spying on the boy?”
Bess rolled her eyes. “I’ve no need to spy. It’s a scent he’s got about him. And a swagger that says some woman’s turning his head. Telling him he’s a man.”
Lucie stood up. “Poor Tildy.”
Bess nodded. “That’s why I mention it. You’ll have your hands full when her feelings aren’t returned.”
As Lucie left her friends, she resolved to speak with Tildy. But in the kitchen, she discovered John and Tildy sharing a cup of ale. Jasper’s pallet had been moved out by the fire. The boy sipped some broth and listened to them sleepily.
“He was a great destrier,” John was saying as Lucie entered, “and I was warned that he let only Sir Thomas touch him. But he was gentle as a lamb with me.” As the draft from the open door reached him, John turned, instantly on guard. When he recognized Lucie, he bobbed his head. “God be with you, Mistress Wilton.”
Lucie nodded to John. “It seems your company and Tildy’s has cheered Jasper. I thank you.”
John nodded, his eyes disturbingly direct. Something had definitely changed since he had traveled with Lucie in the summer.
Tildy took Lucie’s cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall. “Jasper does look better this evening, doesn’t he?” Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked pretty.
Lucie did not ascribe that to Jasper’s condition. Bess must be right. Lucie had seen just now how Tildy hung on John’s every word with a look of adoration. Merciful Mother, Lucie had not realized that Tildy had lost her heart to John.
She could not imagine that Tildy knew much about the boy. John kept to himself. Even the nosy Bess had never gotten much out of John about his life before he showed up in the York stable, burning with fever and his hand crushed. Three fingers on his right hand had to be amputated, leaving John with the thumb and the little finger. But he had healed quickly under Bess’s care, and he’d proven to be an honest, hardworking and resourceful young man. Four years later, Bess and Tom still had no idea how John had crushed his hand or whence he came. Lucie wished Tildy had chosen someone more predictable.
Owen woke early and crept past Anna’s door, glad that she slept. Downstairs, the fire had just been stoked and had not yet warmed the air near the hearth. Owen stepped outside into a biting wind with a chill to it that promised snow. He headed out back to the kitchen to get warm.
The kitchen was a one-room stone building with a large hearth and two baking ovens. Her sleeves rolled up to show strong arms, Angharad, the ruddy-faced cook, basted a haunch of venison while she talked with a younger woman who huddled close to the fire. Next to the younger woman lay a wet, mud-spattered traveling cloak. She held her hands and feet as close to the flame as possible, and Owen noted that her boots were crusted with mud. She seemed absorbed by a tale the cook was weaving. Owen stood in the doorway and listened. To his delight, it was a tale from his childhood, and Angharad’s voice had the soft accent of Wales.
It was from the story of Branwen, daughter of Llyr, about Evnissyen maiming the horses of Mallolwch, King of Ireland. “When King Bran heard of it,” Angharad said, “he was as dismayed as was Mallolwch, for to my countrymen a horse is a noble beast, deserving as much care as our own babes.”
“Really?” The young woman’s eyes followed the cook’s movements.
“As close to the truth as a good bard ever gets,” Owen said, laughing.
The two women turned startled faces in Owen’s direction. The traveler’s face was interesting—square jaw, wide-set brown eyes, and a generous mouth. When the brown eyes met Owen’s, there was a moment of interest, then alarm. Owen’s mood sank. The scar and patch again. He would never be allowed to forget it. The woman stood up with an abruptness that knocked her cloak on the floor. She was an unusually tall woman. Large-boned. Strong, but not ungraceful.
The cook greeted Owen. “I was telling Kate the story I told her little William to make sure he cared well for your horse, Captain Archer.”
“It is good to hear the old tales,” Owen said. He turned to the younger woman. “I see you’ve been traveling. How did you escape being escorted from the gate by my men?”
“Oh, she’s Kate Cooper,” Angharad said. “Steward’s wife. Came in through the fields.”
“Yes. I came in through the fields.” Kate Cooper kept her eyes focused on the floor. “I should be going. The children will be wanting their food.” She turned to get her cloak, then seemed confused when she did not see it on the bench.
Owen picked it up from the floor and offered it to her.
“Thank you.” She still did not look directly at him, which was a challenge since they stood eye to eye. “I—I must have knocked it down.” She seemed oddly flustered as she took the cloak, almost dropping it again. Owen did not think it was his charm that flustered her so. She’d hardly glanced at him.
Perhaps if he were friendly. “So your mother is improved?”
Kate Cooper frowned, then nodded. “God has spared her once more, yes.” She glanced at him while she adjusted her cloak, but looked away quickly when she caught his eye.
“Going so soon?” Owen could tell by the surprise in the cook’s voice that Kate’s departure was unexpected.
“Must see to the children, Angharad.” Kate Cooper hurried out the door.
“A fine-looking woman,” Owen said as he sank down on the bench Kate Cooper had vacated.
“Oh, aye, she is that, is Kate. And she knows how to trade with her looks, that one does. I’m surprised she didn’t go to work on you. Are you wearing some sort of charm your wife made to keep you true?”
“Perhaps she does not care for the patch.”
“Nay, I’m sure it wasn’t that.” Angharad put a tankard of ale down in front of Owen and eased herself down on a bench beside him. “Where did you hear about her mother?”
“From Jack Cooper.”
She nodded. “Didn’t think the Mistress would have told you about that.”
“Why not?”
“Mistress never took to her. She could see what Kate Cooper was about from the start, and she almost didn’t take Jack as steward because of it.”
“Kate’s a wandering wife?” Owen wanted to make sure he understood what the cook was hinting.
“Aye, and the Mistress doesn’t believe that Kate goes off to nurse her mother.”
“That must make it difficult for Jack Cooper.”
“He never mentions her to the Mistress. As he puts it, why remind her of the thorn if the wound’s gone numb?”
“What wound, Angharad?”
“I’d best not say. It’s enough to say that the Mistress was quite right about Kate. And that’s why I’m surprised you’re sitting here with me instead of out in the stables with her.”
The servant Sarah hurried in from the hall. “Mistress Ridley is down, Angharad.”
The cook sighed and eased herself up. “Well, Owen, there’s work to be done out here and she’ll surely be wanting you in the hall. I’ll send in something to fortify you just in case Kate changes her mind.” She winked at Owen and turned back to her cooking.
Cecilia Ridley stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes snapping with anger, watching Owen cross the hall to her. “I hear you’ve been out to the kitchen to meet the harlot.”
The venom in Cecilia’s voice stunned Owen, even with the forewarning from Angharad. “I went out to get warm,” he said. “I did not know Kate Cooper would be out there.”
“So what did she say about me?”
“About you? Nothing. In fact, she said precious little to me at all. Took off as if she thought me a leper. What should she say about you?”
“She has stayed away from me since I found her with Will Crounce. In the stables.”
Owen could tell by the passion in Cecilia’s eyes what she had found them doing. So that was the thorn that Angharad would not define. He decided to take the leap. “That must have been painful for you, considering your feelings for Will.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, closed it, turned her head away. “My feelings?” Her voice was tight. “How did you—” Her eyes flared again. “What has that harlot been telling you?”
“Nothing. No one had to tell me. I guessed it the first time I came, when I brought news of Crounce’s murder.”
“Sweet Jesu.” Cecilia crossed herself and sat down, her pale face even paler. “Was I so obvious? Do you think Gilbert knew what a Mary Magdalene I’d become?”
“I do not think one indiscretion makes you a Mary Magdalene. In any case, your husband did not seem a particularly sensitive man, Mistress Ridley. I noticed because it is my business to study people when I am working for the Archbishop.”
Cecilia dropped her head and made a great business of smoothing her skirt. Owen guessed she hid tears. Her voice, when she spoke, verified that. “Will Crounce was a gentle, loving man.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, still with her head bowed. “We were thrown together so much. He was kind. Always ready to help. He was what I had thought Gilbert would be. He was more my husband than Gilbert ever was.”
“I am not here to judge you.”
Now she looked up. Her dark eyes shimmered with tears in the light of the fire. “But the last months, after Will died, Gilbert became a husband. He took Will’s death hard. It transformed him, as if somehow God’s grace moved from Will to Gilbert. Had I known Gilbert could be so kind”—Cecilia shook her head—“I never knew him. I was his wife for twenty-five years, but I never knew him. I regret so much.” She buried her head in her hands and wept, the sobs coming from deep within her, a sound painful to hear.
Owen sat quietly.
“Please,” Cecilia rose suddenly, wiping her eyes. “Excuse me.” She ran up the stairs, to the confusion of Sarah, who had just come through the door with a tray of food.
Owen hated himself for forcing Cecilia to reveal such intimate feelings. It explained her guarded behavior. She suffered because she had betrayed her husband with his best friend, a wrong she could never undo. Owen did not think it possible now that Cecilia had prepared the physick.
He ate and then went out to the steward’s house to find out why he made Kate Cooper so nervous.
No one answered his knocking. He stepped inside, saw no signs of a traveler just arrived. Perhaps Kate Cooper had already tidied up. Owen left the house and headed for the stables. He met Jack Cooper on the way. The man looked angry.
“So you’ve been to my house? Did you see Kate? Is it true she’s back?”
“I saw her in the kitchen this morning. I just went up to your house hoping to speak with her, but there’s no one there.”
“Kate’s not there?” Jack started to walk quickly toward the house, burst through the door as if trying to catch someone who was eluding him. He spun on his heels and faced Owen angrily. “So where’s she got to—that’s what I want to know.”
Owen wanted to know that, too. And why Jack was so angry. “When she left the kitchen this morning, she said the children were waiting for her.”
Jack shook his head. “I’ve just taken the children to the kitchen for some food. Angharad asked me how many meals the children wanted to eat today. She thought Kate had come back to the house to feed them, just as you say. But Kate’s not here. There’s no sign of her, is there?”
Owen looked around. A large pallet in the corner looked as if it had just been left, rumpled blankets and all, when the children and their father got up this morning. There were no traveling packs in evidence. Nor did Kate Cooper’s cloak hang on the wall. “I’d say you’re right, Jack. Not a sign of her anywhere. Where had she been?”
“With her mother.”
“How far away?”
“York. Just like yourself.”
“Your wife was in York? Did she travel there when Gilbert Ridley went?”
“Oh, aye, they went together, those two.”
“But that could be important.” Owen was excited. “Why didn’t Mistress Ridley tell me that, I wonder?”
“That’s easy enough to answer. We didn’t tell her. I’ve learned it’s best to let the Mistress forget Kate.”
“But your wife was stranded in York when Ridley was murdered. Surely you were worried. I wonder you didn’t mention it to me.”
“Nay, not stranded.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kate did not expect to travel back with Master Ridley. Thought she would be gone longer—her mother was that sick, you see. Kate would find a way back. Or has, I guess. Where could that woman have got to?” Jack had closed the door to the house. Now he turned about as if deciding where to head.
Owen tried to piece things together. Cecilia had caught Kate with Crounce, whom Cecilia loved. Kate went to York with Ridley. Ridley and Crounce were murdered. Someone had been poisoning Ridley. Owen could not fit all the pieces together yet. But something about Kate Cooper bothered him.
“How often does your wife travel to York?” Owen asked.
Jack Cooper shrugged. “I don’t suppose I should complain. Her mother’s alone. Kate’s all she has for family.”
“How often, Jack?”
“Well, let’s see. This Martinmas. Last Corpus Christi—”
“She was there for the Corpus Christi procession?” Owen thought of Crounce’s cloaked companion.
“Oh, aye. And I was with her. But that time wasn’t so much for her mother. A family wedding up in Boroughbridge. We took her mother up.”
Owen tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “How many days did you spend in York at Corpus Christi?”
“Well, let’s see. We would have been there a day before Corpus Christi and a day after.”
“So you left the night Crounce was murdered?”
“Well, now, no, we left the morning after. But we didn’t hear about it till at the wedding. He was from Boroughbridge, you know, so word got up there quick.” Jack frowned. “Why all these questions?”
“I’m just trying to place who was where at the time of the murders, Jack.”
“You’re not accusing us of anything?”
“Not so long as you don’t seem to be hiding anything. Why should I?”
Jack shrugged. “It’s just all these questions.”
“How did you and your wife feel about Crounce’s death?”
“Kate and I were grieved, you can be sure. ’Twas a terrible thing to happen to as good a man as ever lived. Well, he was no saint, as I’ve told you—about him and the Mistress.”
“Were you apart from your wife at any time during your stay in York, Jack?”
“Nay,” Jack said, then shrugged. “Well, there was the night Kate felt sickly, you know, and I went to a tavern. Being in York and all. I couldn’t see just sitting and watching her mother work all evening.”
“And what night was that, Jack?”
Jack squinted at Owen. “Why do you want to know?”
Owen thought quickly. “Crounce was in a tavern—the York Tavern—right before he was murdered. If you were there that night, you might have heard something. Seen someone approach him?”
“Well, it was that night, but not the York Tavern, so I can’t help you. How would you and your men like to help me track Kate down, Captain Archer?”
They searched for Kate Cooper all day, but found no trace of her.
Owen took his leave of Cecilia Ridley and Anna Scorby the next morning. He asked Anna to send word when she arrived at St. Clement’s Nunnery. He might need to speak with her.
He made a last visit to Jack Cooper, hoping that Kate might have returned during the night. The man was glumly dressing his three children.
“What is Kate’s mother’s name, Jack?”
“Felice. Fancy name for an embroiderer, eh?”
“Embroiderer? In York?”
“Aye. Mostly vestments and altar cloths—you know the sort of thing.”
“Does she live in the minster liberty?”
“Inside the gates, aye. Very humble, is Felice. For all that fancy name of hers.”
Owen had slept little the night before, trying to get the facts about Kate Cooper to fall into a neat pattern. And now this. Someone who could easily come and go through the minster gates. But Owen could not think why Kate Cooper would murder the two men. He threw his things together in a hurry, eager to return to York and talk all this over with Lucie. She often saw connections that he didn’t see.
Cecilia came out as Owen tied his pack to his horse. She offered him a stirrup cup. “Have you learned what you need to know?” she asked as he drank.
“Not yet.”
“And the poisoned physick?”
“Forgive me for questioning you about that last night, Mistress Ridley.”
“You had to.”
“But I am sorry.”
Cecilia smiled and, reaching up and pulling Owen’s head down to her level, kissed him on the mouth. “I forgive you with all my heart, Owen,” Cecilia whispered in his ear.
Thank God he was leaving. Owen straightened up, noting how Alfred and Colin grinned. He was determined to leave on a more official note. “This Martin Wirthir who worked for your husband. You said he was a soldier?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Martin Wirthir? Yes. Gilbert wanted me to have nothing to do with him. He said Wirthir had the habits of a life of soldiering. I’m not certain what he meant by that.”
Owen glanced back at Alfred and Colin. “Perhaps I do. Did your husband say anything else about him?”
“He thought Wirthir acted as a liaison between French prisoners of war in England and their families on the Continent. A dangerous business.”
“You never met him?”
Cecilia shook her head. “I wanted to. Gilbert and Matthew both called Martin Wirthir a dangerously charming man, but I was never given the opportunity to judge him.”
“Are ye ready, Captain?” Alfred called.
“Aye.” Owen mounted his horse.
“God go with you.” Cecilia touched his gloved hand.
Owen felt Cecilia’s eyes on him as he rode out of the yard. He prayed that he did not need to return to Riddlethorpe for the Archbishop.
Lucie had exclaimed at the state of Owen’s cloak, stiff underneath, where it had frozen when it was still damp, and covered with a crust of snow. She’d insisted that his first business was to thaw out and get his fingers and toes warm. He was quite warm now, his legs stretched out toward the fire, a cup of Tom Merchet’s ale in his hands.
As Lucie dished up the stew she had kept warm for Owen, she told him about Jasper, pleased to have such a surprise for him.
“Thank God the boy’s safe,” Owen said. “Where is he? I have questions to ask him.”
Lucie smiled at Owen’s relief. “He’s sleeping now. You can wait till morning.”
But Owen was already frowning. “Who brought him from Magda Digby’s?” It was the tone that usually led to an argument.
Lucie wanted no arguments. She nodded at the stew. “Eat that. You’ve been riding for two days. I am sure you have not eaten well in that long.”
Owen ignored the stew. “Did you go down to Magda Digby’s to get Jasper?”
Lucie sighed. “I wish you would eat before we talk. You know your temper when you’re hungry.”
“Did you, Lucie?”
“I did not go alone, Owen. Don’t treat me like a child.”
“It is dangerous down there. And with all the rain and snow, it must be flooding.”
“I said I was not such a fool as to go alone. A friar, Tildy, and one of Tildy’s brothers accompanied me. We had the use of a boat and Bess’s donkey cart. We were quite well prepared.”
“Did you take care to keep Jasper concealed?”
“Of course I did!” Lucie was getting angry.
“You went at night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Owen. And now you’re going to tell me how foolish that was.”
Owen banged his fist on the table. “Do you realize how dangerous it is to row across a flood in the dark?”
“Sweet Jesu, what would you have me do, Owen? Leave the boy down there? It was you who cursed John Thoresby for not protecting Jasper.”
“And who’s protecting you? Whenever we’re separated, you take risks. Last time you traveled, you returned with a stranger. Now you’ve risked your life rowing across a flooding river at night. What am I supposed to do with you?”
Lucie stared at Owen. “What are you talking about? You were worried about the boy. He turned up at Magda Digby’s, and she sent the friar to ask if I could take the boy in. I brought him here safely. He is recovering. I did it for you. Now, instead of thanking me, you’re looking for an argument. I don’t understand you.”
“You did not have to go yourself.”
“I wanted to.”
They stared at each other, both angry, for a long, quiet moment.
Then Owen closed his eye, shook his head. “Forgive me, Lucie. I am tired, disappointed in the results of my journey, aching from the ride, and my stomach is in turmoil from a greasy stew I ate on the way.” He caught Lucie’s hand. “Damn it, we always ruin homecomings with an argument.”
“It is you who have ruined it, not I. I gave you what I thought—what any sensible person would think—good news.” Lucie pulled her hand from Owen’s and stood up. “I’m going up to bed. You will digest your food better if I am not in the room.”
Owen pushed his bench away from the trestle table and pulled Lucie down on his lap.
She kept her head turned from him and stared at the fire.
“You were on my mind all the time, Lucie.” Owen stroked her hair. “I did not like leaving you when you were so sad. Please forgive me. And forgive my ingratitude.”
Lucie had to admit that was a beginning toward apology. “I cannot deny I had misgivings about going, Owen. But I took precautions. You go on as if I were a child.”
“So how do I dig myself out of this?”
“You finish eating your stew and then come up to bed.” Lucie tried to wriggle out of Owen’s grasp, but he held tight.
“God allows even the greatest sinners a chance to redeem themselves. Will you not grant the same?”
Lucie could not help it; her humours betrayed her. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch, and she turned away to hide her smile.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Owen pressed his head to her chest.
Damn the man. He was too good at being charming. “You know I will forgive you. I always do.”
Owen hugged Lucie. She turned and put her arms around him, burying her face in his wiry hair.
“I am not as hungry as I thought,” he said, getting his arms under her and beginning to rise.
Lucie lifted her head. “Then go on up. I will tidy up down here and follow.”
Owen let Lucie stand up. “We will tidy up. What am I going to do up in that cold bed waiting for you?”
“Contemplate your sins?”
Owen snorted.
Lucie laughed and gave him a kiss. “I did miss you, you scoundrel.”
He held her tight, and she could feel his heart pounding. “This is what I thought about all the way back.” Owen’s voice was different now, soft and affectionate. “Why does it always take so long to get to this point?”
Lucie said nothing. She wondered the same thing. It was as if their humours were opposite. They could turn the simplest conversation into an argument. She worried about it.