Owen was grateful when Nicholas de Louth grew quiet, winded from the long ride. And no wonder, with his flabby body and his ceaseless chatter, the man could not have a great store of breath. But for all his talk, he’d told Owen little of use. His men had found no witnesses to the attack on Alfred and Colin. One woman had noticed a group of men loitering on Skeldergate for several days. Only one had stood out in her mind, a fair-haired man with crooked teeth who shouted at the other men. But she had been at market when the attack occurred, and she had not seen the men since that day. An unhelpful harvest.
It was a quiet, solemn party that rode into Leeds.
The wool trade flourished in Leeds, apparent from the fine houses of prosperous merchants lining the north bank of the River Aire. The monks of Kirkstall Abbey to the northwest had begun the trade, the burghers had expanded it.
Owen and Louth stopped at an inn near the market square. As the innkeeper filled their tankards, they asked him to point them toward Matthew Calverley’s house.
“Edge of the city, gardens and parkland surrounding it. For Mistress Calverley, who was highborn.”
Owen caught the word “was.” “Mistress Calverley is dead?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye. Drowned, she did.” He tilted his head and squinted at Owen. “Queer your not knowing the story when you’ve business with the family. Are you gaming with me?”
“We are not acquaintances,” Owen explained, “just messengers from the lord chancellor.”
The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “You’re king’s men, are you? Well well well. So Matthew’s got business with the king?”
“His chancellor.”
The innkeeper rubbed his ear, then snapped his fingers at them. “Law troubles, eh? Well, can’t say as I’m surprised.”
“You might sit with us and tell us Mistress Calverley’s sad tale.” Owen pushed his tankard toward the innkeeper. “Fill one for yourself.”
The innkeeper poured, sat down. “Trot’s the name. Trot the Taverner, my good gentlemen.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shook his head. “Poor Matthew. Thought he’d get noble blood in his line and wound up with a family ill fit for the world.”
“Truly?”
“Aye. Mistress Anne Calverley was a comely lady, fiery hair and fiery temper. Once Matthew had set his eyes on her, there could be no other woman for him. She was the third daughter, so her family did not mind her marrying money instead of blood—Matthew had already made his fortune, though there were those who wondered how, with the king restricting the wool shipments across the Channel.” Trot shrugged. “And quickly came two sons and three daughters.”
Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for a talkative innkeeper. “Is Calverley’s eldest son a merchant?”
“Oh, aye, young Frank. Plump and prosperous like his father. T’other son—Hugh—was a bad lot. Built like a warhorse. Fought like a wild dog. Went off to seek his fortune.” Trot nodded. “Eldest daughter—Edith—cherry-cheeked and docile, married another merchant in this fair city, Harrison. Middle daughter—Joanna—was to marry a merchant from Hull, but she fled to the convent. Pity. Took after her mother, temper and then some. Her brother Hugh was her champion. Youngest daughter—Sarasina. Funny name. Mistress Calverley was already acting queer, you see.”
“How long ago did the mistress drown?” Owen asked.
Trot screwed up his face, thinking. “Before Christmas.” He sighed. “Pity. Even after birthing eight children, five yet living, Mistress Calverley was still a beauty.”
“Was her drowning an accident?”
Trot drained his tankard. “I’ll repeat nothing I don’t know as truth. All I know is she drowned in the river. How it happened, that I could not be saying.”
An impressive house, an old hall with a new wing of stone, glazed windows, set in a meadow that rolled down to a line of trees through which the River Aire glinted. The day had warmed and the sun was strong. A burly man in a wide-brimmed hat put down his hoe and came from the kitchen garden to greet them. He wore a simple chemise, slit front and back, with the tails tucked up in his belt for easy movement in his work. His chemise and leggings were earth-stained.
Owen let Louth step forward, a more presentable stranger with his unlined face and guileless smile. “God speed. I am Nicholas de Louth, a canon of Beverley. Would your master be at home?”
The gardener’s little pig eyes swept past Louth in his finery and narrowed at sight of Owen, whose patch always made folks uneasy. “What’s a canon of Beverley want with Master Calverley?”
“It would be best to keep it between us and Master Calverley,” Owen said.
“‘Us’, eh? And who are you?”
Impudent gardener. But Owen needed his good opinion. “I am Owen Archer, former Captain of Archers for the Duke of Lancaster, now a representative of John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.”
The pig eyes lit up. “Two Church men?”
Owen winced at that. “I am not a Church man.”
The gardener shrugged. “As you will.”
“We would speak with Master Calverley,” Louth said.
The gardener grinned and stepped back with a little bow. “And so you are.”
“You?” It was not just his gardening attire that surprised Owen—Trot’s story had led him to expect a man in mourning. Matthew Calverley seemed quite cheerful.
Matthew chuckled. “I have handed most of my business over to my son for the summer. Let him sink or swim in the best tradition of ordeals. I must know at some point whether he is fit to take it over completely, mustn’t I? And while he’s flailing round in the pond of commerce, I am enjoying my garden.”
Owen found the watery images disturbing from a man whose wife had drowned, but he put on a smile. “My wife is always happiest when she can spend some part of her day at work in the garden.”
Matthew looked Owen up and down. “Married, are you? I wouldn’t have thought.” He shrugged. “So, men, what does the Church want with Matthew Calverley?”
“We hoped you might tell us a little about your daughter, Joanna,” Owen said.
Matthew’s expression grew pensive. “Ah. The poor little chit. Is she in good health?”
Louth shrugged. “Dame Joanna is recovering at St. Mary’s Abbey from a long journey in unfavorable circumstances. The flesh improves each day; but the spirit—that is why we are here. We hope that if we learn more about her we shall be better able to help her recover.”
Matthew glanced from one to the other with a puzzled frown. “A long journey? She took her vows at Clementhorpe Priory, last I heard. How’s she been on a long journey?”
“She ran away,” Owen said.
Matthew dropped his eyes, made an odd sound in the back of his throat, grabbed his hat off his head, and fanned his red face. “Dear me, she bolted, eh? Oh dear.” He sighed, looked up at Owen. “Can’t say as I’m surprised. Never did understand what turned that hot little filly into a nun—except Jason Miller’s bald pate and hairy moles.” Matthew threw back his head and laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, not sincere. He quickly grew serious and invited them inside. “Sounds to me like a story that requires fortifying. Come within. Welcome to Calvary House, as Joanna’s mother used to call it.”
A serving girl hurried off to bring refreshments as Matthew showed them through a high-ceilinged great hall into a smaller room with a lancet window looking out toward the garden Matthew had been tending. A writing table sat by the window to catch the south light, a basket of scrolls beside it on the plank floor. A brazier behind the writing chair would warm the room in most weather, though the air coming in the room today was mild and welcome. Matthew looked round, realized he had seating for only two, and hurried away with apologies to get a third.
Louth took the chair by the writing table, turning it to face into the room. He sat down. “He’s full of smiles for a widower.”
Owen walked over to the window to look at the garden. “Perhaps Calverley’s cheerfulness is a mask to cover his true feelings. People—” He stopped as footsteps approached.
A procession entered the room. One man deposited a small table near the window, a second set a tray of bottles and cups on the table, the woman who had greeted them at the door set down a tray of bread, cheese, and apples. A third man lugged in an ornately carved chair, placing it to complete a triangle with the other chairs in the room. Matthew Calverley followed at the end with a small stool, the right height for a footrest.
After the servants had departed, Matthew settled himself in the ornate chair, propping his feet on the footrest. When he had adjusted the two items to his satisfaction, he rose and poured himself a mazer full of ale from a pitcher. “Come, help yourselves, gentlemen. Ale, wine, mead. Whatever is your pleasure.” He had changed into an elegantly patterned gown and matching shoes with pointed toes.
Owen poured himself a cup of ale, tasted it, held the cup up to toast his host. “A fine brew. Second only to Tom Merchet’s at the York Tavern.”
Matthew nodded, busy settling back in his chair. Louth rose and poured himself some wine, tasted it, smiled at the cup. He, too, evidently surprised by the quality.
But then it was a substantial house, well situated, large, with adequate servants. Not as modern a house as another wool merchant’s Owen had visited the past year, but quite impressive. The only thing truly surprising was the mood of the household. It did not feel like a house in mourning.
Perhaps the innkeeper had been having fun with them, feeding them a pack of lies.
“It might be advisable to include Mistress Calverley in this discussion,” Owen suggested.
“Mistress? The mistress of this house is but a child, gentlemen.” He laughed at their confusion. “My daughter, Sarasina, is mistress now.”
“Your wife is dead, Master Calverley?”
“Dead?” The pig eyes moved up to the ceiling, rested there, moving side to side. “Well, I cannot say for certain, Master Archer. But she has been gone some time.” He lowered his gaze to Owen’s single eye. “So what has Joanna done to warrant your interest?”
Hiding his confusion as best he could, Owen said, “Your daughter ran away from the convent just before midsummer last year. Took a relic from the convent to buy help in her disappearance.”
Matthew shook his head. “She was ever difficult, was Joanna. But to steal a relic…” He took a long drink. “And what happened? They caught her at it?” He shook his head. “But no, not a year ago. You would not be here telling me…”
“She arranged for a false funeral, then disappeared for almost a year.” Owen watched Matthew’s expressive face, saw there a mixture of admiration and distress.
“I suppose Anne was informed and neglected to tell me.” Matthew suddenly stiffened, his eyes troubled. “If the Reverend Mother sent a messenger I did not see—Could that be what happened? Anne feared she had some part in Joanna’s death?”
Louth shook his head. “The Reverend Mother said she did not inform your family—that you had given instructions that Joanna was never to be mentioned.”
Matthew closed his eyes a moment, breathed deeply. “Anne’s instructions, not mine.” He looked up at Owen. “I am glad it was not that. So. Then what happened?”
“Last month Joanna suddenly appeared in Beverley, at the house of a man called Will Longford. She sought the relic, hoping to return it to St. Clement’s and be accepted back herself.”
“Will Longford?” Matthew turned his head to the side, as if listening to an invisible person beside him.
Owen leaned forward, hopeful. “The man from whose house Joanna staged her funeral. Do you know the name?”
Matthew turned back to Owen, nodding slowly. “I believe I do. Yes. I do. And as was ever the case with Joanna, her trouble points back to Hugh.”
“Her brother?”
Matthew dropped his head, as if deep in thought, then lifted it up with a wary look. “But why exactly are you here?”
“Since your daughter’s return, Longford’s maidservant has been murdered and the corpse of Longford’s cook has been discovered in the grave dug for your daughter’s false burial. Both deaths were violent.”
Matthew looked alarmed. “God help us! You don’t think Joanna murdered them?”
“No. But the fact that Joanna put such effort into getting away from the priory only to ask to be accepted back a year later is passing strange. We want to know just what her arrangement was with Longford.”
“This Will Longford is no help?”
“He is missing.”
Matthew crossed himself. “What has Joanna got into?” He rubbed his eyes. “She will not talk?”
Owen shrugged. “Will not talk or cannot remember, it is difficult to tell.”
Matthew nodded again. “With Joanna that can be impossible. As with her mother.” He was quiet a moment, then suddenly slapped his thighs, looked at each of his guests. “So you wish me to take Joanna back, is that it?”
The suggestion surprised Owen. “No. Though perhaps it will come to that.”
Matthew gave a big sigh. “I would rather it did not come to that, Master Archer. Not that I don’t love the girl, but it has lightened the burden of my advancing age to have those three gone. I had forgotten how quiet and sweet life could be.”
Owen and Louth exchanged a look. “Three, Master Calverley?” Louth said.
“Anne and her little demons, Joanna and Hugh. They were purely of Anne’s blood, gentlemen, as Edith and Frank are purely of mine. Sarasina”—he shrugged—“so far she has her mother’s beauty but a placid spirit. God has been merciful.” Matthew crossed himself again.
Owen found Matthew Calverley’s reactions puzzling. He wished to slow down and study the man, but he must carry on while the man was in a good humour. “I know this must be painful to you, Master Calverley, but what exactly happened to Mistress Calverley?”
Matthew got up, poured more ale, held onto the little table while he gulped down a considerable amount, topped his mazer, and returned to his seat. “What exactly. Well, I cannot exactly say. She walked away one morning, a cold, dark day. When she had been gone too long for such cold, I went looking.” He shrugged. “I never found her. She never returned.”
Owen glanced out the window, remembering the river.
Matthew caught the look. “You are thinking she walked into the river.” He frowned, nodded. “Her cloak lay not far from the riverbank, hanging on a branch, as if she had put it there to keep it out of the mud.” Matthew was silent a moment, staring down at his feet. Then he sighed, looked back at Owen with a forced smile. “But I prefer to think she ran off with someone who shares her strangeness. You see, Joanna and Hugh shared their strangeness, and they were content in each other’s company.”
That brief moment of silence, then the forced smile, at last Owen felt he had glimpsed Matthew’s suffering. Deep, forced down, kept down with a strong will. Might the drowning story have been told to stop gossip? “Was your wife sad that Joanna and Hugh had grown up and left her?”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Far from it. By then Anne wanted nothing to do with either of them. She said”—an odd, dark look came over the round face, then passed—“no matter what she said. Anne saw the world sideways and upside-down. But I tell you, life has been quiet since the moon-mad Boulains have been out of the house.”
“You have never searched the river?”
Matthew closed his eyes. “She was a beautiful woman, Master Archer. And the madness—it can be captivating, I tell you. The faraway look in the eyes, the half smile.” He shook his head. “She had that look on that cold, gray morning. So beautiful she was.” Tears crept from the closed lids. “I wish to remember her that way. It would—” His voice broke. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeves. “I do not want to know.”
Owen rose and poured himself more ale, stared out the window, working to put down the image that wanted to darken his mind, of Lucie, bloated, lifeless. He had seen the bodies of the drowned. He understood why Matthew did not wish to see his wife so.
Louth’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Where is your son Hugh, Master Calverley?”
Owen returned to his seat.
Matthew Calverley brightened at the change in subject. “Hugh is at Scarborough Castle, working for the king’s stewards there, the Percies. You see, that’s where Will Longford comes in. Anne meant Hugh for the Church, but that was never right for him. He wanted to fight.” Matthew shrugged. “Truth be told, he wanted to kill. Which did not sound like a vocation to the Church to me. It’s the sort of mismatch that creates trouble. And Hugh was already trouble enough. So, being a father who would rather meet up with his children in Heaven some day, I reminded the Percies of a favor they owed me.”
“What sort of favor?” Louth asked.
Owen could see that his companion was very alert now.
Matthew began to take another drink, but put the tankard down on the floor beside his footstool instead. Owen was glad of it. Their host’s nose was already red from the drink. He did not want the man to get fuzzy headed and fall asleep before they had learned what they could from him.
“I offered to forget the balance of a loan I’d made them if they took Hugh into their service. They liked the terms, set him a task. They’d obtained a seal carried by a Frenchman whose ship went down in the North Sea. The Frenchman had drowned, but his squire traded the seal and information for a warmer cell in the castle dungeon. He told the Percies that his master’s destination was Beverley, though he did not know for what purpose.”
Louth rose, poured himself more wine, returned to his seat. “What was this seal?”
“St. Sebastian. The martyr with all the arrows stuck in him.”
Owen nodded. “Patron saint of archers.”
Matthew rose and cut some bread, nibbling on it as he stood a moment, gazing out the window.
“Forgive us for taking you away from your garden on such a day,” Owen said.
Matthew flicked his free hand up, palm forward. “Do not apologize. In truth, I meander in my explanations. You must herd me to the gate, gentlemen, or you shall be here at Calvary till Doomsday.”
Owen accepted the challenge. “What did the seal have to do with Longford?”
“There were reports that Longford was frequently in Scarborough, though no one knew where he stayed. The Percies believed he was still working with du Guesclin.”
“So what was Hugh’s task?”
Matthew put some cheese on the bread. “Hugh was to present the seal to Will Longford, tell him of the shipwreck, say he’d tried to save the envoy, who had paid him well to deliver the seal to Longford and had enticed him further with the promise that Longford would recommend him to one of the better captains in the Free Companies.” Matthew bit off a mouthful of bread, chewed thoughtfully.
“They hoped Longford would be foolish enough to admit a connection with du Guesclin?” Owen asked.
“Some such. One of the younger Percies was in the city, awaiting a signal from Hugh.” Matthew popped the rest of the bread and cheese into his mouth.
Louth snorted. “An impossible assignment.”
Matthew returned to his seat, and took up his mazer, drinking deeply. “Though he’s quite an actor, Hugh failed. Longford not only didn’t slip up, he saw through him, Hugh could tell, and he got worried about Joanna—she was with him. He bundled Joanna off to her aunt at once. I doubt she ever forgave him that.”
“Why was she with him at Longford’s?”
“He was escorting her to my sister Winifred, near Hull—for instruction in the wifely arts. Anne was no good as a teacher. He should have gone first to Winifred, but Joanna begged to see Beverley.”
“How did Hugh lose the seal?” Owen asked.
Matthew shook his head. “The fool left it at Longford’s while he took Joanna to my sister’s house. When Hugh returned, Longford had disappeared, and the seal with him. Nothing to prove, no trail to follow.”
“Was Joanna privy to Hugh’s purpose?”
“Nay. We had agreed he must not tell her the truth. It could be dangerous for her, she would be near Beverley. As far as she knew, he was supposed to escort her to Winifred’s, then go south to Oxford, but his meeting with Longford was a secret plan to get some money and strike out on his own, escape the Church.” Matthew frowned, scratched his cheek. “You say she stole a relic with which to trade? And went to Longford?”
Owen nodded.
“Poor little chit. She believed his story. He told her he’d stolen a relic and was trading with Longford. The arm of St. Hardulph of Breedon in a grand reliquary; our relic from the parish. Hugh was always frightening her with tales of St. Hardulph’s bones, saying they did not rest easy, Hardulph missed his home. Once when he and Joanna found an arm on the riverbank, Hugh told her it was the arm of St. Hardulph, trying to get home to Breedon. For weeks Joanna begged us to send the saint back home.”
Louth chuckled. “A wondrous spinner of tales, your Hugh.”
Matthew sighed, stared into his mazer. “One of the Boulain gifts. But it is a cursed gift. They forget now and then what they made up and what is real.”
“She seems confused at present about a blue shawl she wears. She says it is Our Lady’s mantle.”
Matthew shook his head. “You see? And after living with her day in and day out saying it is, then it isn’t, it is, then it isn’t, you would not know what was true about it.”
“So Hugh told Joanna he was taking St. Hardulph to Longford?”
“Yes. But they were to pretend it was St. Sebastian’s arm, which would fetch far more money than St. Hardulph’s. That was how Hugh twisted it round so he could say St. Sebastian at the door.”
Owen thought it unnecessarily complicated. “And she believed it?”
“How else did she get the idea to try it herself? And it was a believable story. He would use the money to outfit himself as a soldier.” Matthew rubbed his forehead. “You must understand. They played together, wove these tales, and I swear they believed half of them. When they were young, their mother would say it was all in fun, she had played so as a child, it was good to dream while young. But as they got older she did not think it so innocent.” He frowned, clutched the mazer, drained it.
“How did the Percies feel about Hugh’s failure?”
“It was the Percies wrote to me and told me the sad story. Hugh’s poor judgment had cost them the seal; they might have put it to good use sending du Guesclin false reports. But they took Hugh on, said he had proved his courage and the mistake would make him try that much harder.”
“Have you seen Hugh recently?”
Matthew shook his head. “Not since he and Joanna went to Beverley.”
“How long ago was that?”
Matthew closed his eyes, tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, muttered to himself. “Seven years, thereabouts. Joanna was but thirteen.” He shook his head. “Fool thing to betroth her to Jason Miller. I should have known such a dreamy child expected a prince, not an old merchant who wanted a nursemaid for his daughters.”
“Tell us about that.”
“Little to tell. Six, seven months later a letter came from my sister saying to expect Joanna in a week’s time, she had insulted her betrothed and fasted until she was ill and mad with fever visions, and was begging to be sent to a convent.”
“You were embarrassed by the broken engagement?”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “That is not the half of it. She was a vixen, gentlemen. Always flirting. Could not take her to a fair or procession, anything in the city, without having to break her grip on a young man and drag her home. Next day the young man would come calling, she’d refuse to see him. And she stared at herself. Polished little metal mirrors everywhere. We found her once in the river meadow running naked—at thirteen, mind you, and boats up and down the river all the time. She was—” He leaned back, head in hand. “When Jason Miller, a nice, stable widower, offered his hand, and a home in Hull, away from all the gossip, Anne and I could not resist the chance to be rid of her.”
“Whatever made you agree to her entering the convent?”
Matthew shook his head. “When she returned from Beverley, so thin and whispering to herself about devils and dreams and God and the cross, we did not know what to think. All the bloom was gone. She had bald patches, her teeth were loose. I wanted to blame my sister, but in my heart I knew. After Anne lost our first babe, she sat in a corner of the hall and sang for days and days. I thought I would go mad. She would drink no water, her voice grew hoarse, disappeared to a whisper, and still she sang, sang, sang. And then one day a chapman came selling odds and ends. She heard his patter in the yard and went out. She touched a set of needles. One of them pricked her. She bought all the needles he carried and came in the house with them, went up to bed, slept for two days. When she woke, she said, ‘My blood has come forth again. I am meant to live.’” Matthew shivered and crossed himself.
Owen and Louth exchanged puzzled looks.
“You decided Joanna was like her mother and might be better off in the convent?” Owen guessed.
“When madness begets madness, perhaps it is better to end the line, eh?” Matthew looked at their frowns, shook his head. “You cannot know, either of you. You keep hoping it is a passing mood, that tomorrow she will make sense, you will have a sensible partner. You rejoice when she wakes with clear eyes, practical worries, reasonable reactions to household problems. You mourn when the vagueness returns.”
Louth lifted an eyebrow. “It is a wonder that your son Hugh is retained by the Percies if he behaves so.”
Matthew shrugged. “Hugh embraces danger. That is desirable in what he does. And he seems merely a weaver of tales, not a liar, not mad. Just comes out differently in Hugh.”
Owen grew curious to meet Hugh Calverley. “Why did your wife turn against Hugh and Joanna?”
Matthew frowned, stood up as if to get more ale, but just stood with his back to his guests, looking out at the garden. “It does not matter. She saw plots and transgressions in everything. I paid her no heed. Had I listened to Anne I would have gone mad myself.”
“So you do not think that Joanna’s flight from the convent and Mistress Calverley’s disappearance are related?”
Matthew shook his head. “I do not say it lightly when I tell you Anne turned against them. I was at wit’s end when the letter came from my sister, warning of Joanna’s return. Anne said she would not let Joanna in the house. It was only after I exaggerated Joanna’s reported vocation that Anne agreed to having Joanna in the house for a short time.”
“Did Joanna know of her mother’s feelings?”
“Joanna is seldom aware of the feelings of others.”
Owen found it an interesting observation.
“The prioress of St. Clement’s is a Percy,” Louth said, changing the subject yet again. “Did she take Joanna as a favor to you?”
Matthew took a moment to answer. “A Percy?” He frowned. “Nay. Seven years back the prioress was not a Percy. Sir William Percy merely suggested the convent was poor, might accept Joanna with a generous dowry. He had placed a poor relation there. Perhaps she is the present prioress.”
The shadows lengthened in the garden. Owen grew tired of sitting. He rose. “You have been most helpful, Master Calverley.”
Matthew rose in haste. “But surely you will stay to supper?”
Louth followed Owen’s lead and rose. “You are kind to offer, but we have men to see to, and a long journey tomorrow.”
Matthew looked disappointed.
“There is one other piece of information that would be of use,” Owen said. “Do you know where your son stays in Scarborough? Is he actually up at the castle?”
Matthew shrugged. “I imagine him there, but as I say, I have heard nothing from him in his new life. I address my communications with the Percies to the castle, but that means naught.” He touched Owen’s arm as he began to move toward the door. “If you see Hugh, tell him his mother has passed on, if you will. It seems right that he should know not to expect her if he ever returns. And tell him—tell him we are well.”
Owen walked back out through the grand hall, turning his head this way and that to see around him, the lovely tapestries, the delicate tracery in the windows, the carved, high backed chairs, the solid table tops hung between the tapestries, ready to be brought down for feasts. Someone had worked hard to make the room pleasant. Anne Calverley on her lucid days? Was she aware of her changeable nature? Was Joanna? Had Joanna seen her mother’s moods and wondered whether she would be the same? And if she had, had she feared it?
Owen, Louth and the canon’s men were to spend the night at the guest house of Kirkstall Abbey. As they rode into the outer court of the abbey, Louth became animated, pointing out the tannery, the fulling mill, the brew house. “The Cistercians have perfected the self-contained community. They have everything here. They use every resource available. You will find all the latest techniques practiced here.”
“You are thinking of giving up your prebends and joining the order?”
Louth looked at Owen askance. “Of course not. What gave you that idea?”
They rode through the inner gatehouse into the inner court, Louth still pointing out the wonders of the Cistercian design. Owen was glad when, after they were shown to a chamber in the guest house, Louth took his leave to go explore with his squire.
In the main hall of the guest house, Owen met a traveler en route to York with a scar on his hand that drew and bothered him like the scar on Owen’s face. Seeing an opportunity, Owen gave the traveler a sample of the ointment he carried, specially prepared by Lucie, and promised him a jar of it if he delivered a letter to Lucie. The traveler found the trade more than fair. Owen found a quiet corner in the hall and spent the late afternoon writing to Lucie, telling her all he had learned today from Matthew Calverley. It helped him organize his thoughts.