On the evening of Corpus Christi, Owen sat in a tavern staring into a tankard of thick country ale. He did not want to be up on the moors, headed toward Beverley. He wanted to be in York watching the pageants with Lucie. Ever since he knew he was to be a father, he had imagined events that were to come. One of those was the Corpus Christi celebration this midsummer; he and Lucie would watch the pageants and smile at the thought of sharing this with their child in the future. They would hope for fine weather next year so the infant could sit outside with them. He or she would be nine months old by then. Not old enough to be aware of the wondrous event they were watching, but who could say what a baby remembered?
Owen also worried about Jasper. Corpus Christi last year was when all Jasper’s troubles began. His mother had collapsed while watching the pageants, his master had been murdered the following evening. The boy would find this time painful. Owen hoped Lucie had thought to bring Jasper home from the abbey today to feel part of a family at this sad time. How much better if Owen could be there, too.
And Lucie. She would be great with child by now. She needed Owen to be there. He wanted to be there, his arm round her, steadying her. Keeping her warm at night. Helping her up the steep, shallow steps to their bedchamber.
Not here, in a greasy, smoky tavern in the midst of the moors, drinking ale made from barley so poorly ground he must chew the chaff that remained after he swallowed. A second drink did not wash it down, but left more chaff—and more and more as he drank his way down to the bottom.
Edmund slumped sullenly over his tankard, too, looking up only to check round the room for Jack. With each day of the journey Edmund grew more obsessed with the feeling that Jack rode along behind, just out of sight and hearing. Neither Owen nor Alfred had seen any evidence of pursuit, although once or twice Owen thought he heard an echo of their hoofbeats.
Only Alfred seemed in good humor, grinning at the taverner’s daughter, who kept glancing over her shoulder at him while she passed among the trestle tables. She was young and plain, with a sharp tongue for the grabbers and pinchers who slowed her down, and an amazing kick that landed true every time. Alfred was smitten. “Now there’s a woman knows her own worth, keeps to her business.”
Edmund closed his eyes and shook his head. “She’s probably bedded more lovers than you ever will and is riddled with disease.”
Alfred just laughed. “You are jealous that she smiles at me, not you.”
Edmund gave him a disgusted look. “You haven’t a brain in your head.”
The taverner’s daughter put Owen in mind of Bess Merchet. “You might find her harder to bed than you think,” he warned Alfred. “A woman with such a backbone does not fall into the arms of the first man who flirts with her.”
Alfred shrugged. “I can but try.” He rose.
Owen grabbed his hand. “We must rise early, ride in to Beverley. I do not want to dawdle on the road because you had little sleep and cannot sit your horse in a gallop.” Nor would he be of any use if they must turn and fight.
For a moment, Alfred’s face changed, hardened, his eyes narrowed, his color rose. He moved his eyes slowly to Owen’s hand on his. “I never liked you much. ’Twas Colin worshipped you.”
Owen squeezed the hand harder and gave Alfred a look that warned he was not amused. “I am not asking you to like me. But you are mine to command on this journey. We have business in Beverley and York. And Edmund to keep an eye on. You shall leave off the lovemaking until we finish our business. Then be damned if you will.”
Alfred backed off, not liking the look in Owen’s eyes. “I was just having some fun. Meant nothing by it.”
Owen let go Alfred’s hand. A hush had spread round them as folk eyed the two men with curiosity and apprehension. “We are calling unwanted attention to ourselves,” Owen said softly. He picked up Alfred’s tankard, shook it, and said loudly, “Empty? Is that all you’re bellyaching about?”
Alfred lifted his hand and balled up his fist, turned suddenly to the room at large and belched. He grinned, relaxed his hand. “Better now.” And sat down, banging his fist on the table. “So I’ll have another, now you’ve asked.”
Edmund shook his head. “You’re a pig.”
“But not an ass. I know an eye that threatens bloody murder when I see it.” Once Alfred had drunk down his ale, he went stumbling off to bed.
Edmund soon followed. Owen stayed below until he had made a thorough study of each face in the room. He would remember them if they turned up again on his journey.
But for all their growing unease, they arrived without incident in Beverley at dusk the following day, pushing their way against an opposing force of folk leaving town after the Corpus Christi pageants, picking their way through the guild members disassembling the pageant wagons. By the time they reached Ravenser’s house, they wanted only something to drink and then bed. Ravenser recognized their condition and showed them to a bedchamber. The provost held Owen back while Alfred and Edmund went in.
“The stocky one. You did not set out from York with him.”
“No. He is one of Captain Sebastian’s men. Come along to help us question Joanna.”
Ravenser’s eyebrow went up, just as his uncle’s would. “Unbound?”
“We have come to an agreement,” Owen said.
Ravenser gave him a look that clearly said he thought him a fool. “I must hear about this. But first, let me give you this letter and leave you alone to read it.” Ravenser drew from somewhere in his fine houppelande a sealed letter. The Wilton’s seal, now Lucie’s, with a mortar and pestle. “I received one as well,” Ravenser said.
Owen went back down to the hall with an oil lamp and read of Joanna’s self-mutilation and her eerie refrain, “No one should suffer the grave before death’s sleep.” Lucie thought Joanna’s attack on herself was her response to her mother’s death. Owen tucked that idea in the back of his mind and read on, how Lucie grew large and clumsy, Sir Robert proved a patient, helpful gardener, Jasper was to come stay for the eve and day of Corpus Christi. And Lucie had adopted a stray kitten, an orange tabby, whom Melisende disliked. Owen groaned. Melisende was intrusive enough in their small house. Why was Lucie adopting another cat? She wrote that she hoped Owen would take time to see Beverley Minster, which was said to be almost as beautiful as York Minster. By now she trusted he would desire a peaceful place where he might think. Owen smiled. She was right. And her concern was a comfort; a man could feel so alone.
Ravenser joined Owen. “You have read about Dame Joanna?”
Owen nodded. “Bad luck she has been unable to speak.”
“The woman is dangerous. My uncle sees no difficulty in returning her to St. Clement’s once we know all is safe, but I do not agree.”
“His Grace is in York now?”
Ravenser shook his head. “At Windsor or Sheen on the king’s business, but he hopes to return shortly after you arrive. What do you think about the nun’s obsession with someone being buried alive?”
“Jaro could not have been alive when they buried him.”
Ravenser frowned at the memory of the corpse. “I agree. I cannot see how one’s neck could be broken in the grave. So it is her own burial that haunts her?”
“According to Edmund, she was not long in the ground. A few shovels full of earth over her. Can a momentary experience leave such a scar?”
“Edmund told you this? The man who sleeps upstairs?”
“He took part in the ruse.” Owen rubbed his eyes, weary from days of journeying with the tension of Edmund’s spectral pursuers. “I have much to tell you. But Joanna’s obsession with someone buried alive—it makes me uneasy, Sir Richard. How thoroughly did you examine Jaro?”
“We opened the grave, cut open his shroud, noted the broken neck.” Ravenser tilted his head to one side, leaned back in his chair. “What are you thinking?”
“That I should take a look at that grave. And speak to the gravedigger.”
“You doubt our thoroughness?”
“They tell me Jaro was huge. Fat. Much could be hidden with such a corpse.”
Ravenser pressed the bridge of his nose. “I confess my own doubts on the matter.” He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. “I shall attend you. When do you wish to proceed?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Ravenser whispered to himself. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. “I ask you to wait one more day, until the Corpus Christi revelers are safely gone. It is so crowded in the city at present that nothing can be accomplished without an audience.”
Owen agreed. “Tomorrow I shall speak with the gravedigger and the priest who buried Joanna.”
Ravenser nodded. “I shall arrange for them to come here.”
Owen tucked Lucie’s letter in his belt, slapped the arms of his chair, and rose, stretching.
Ravenser smiled. “You are not comfortable sitting in a chair for long, are you?”
“True enough. Years of campaigning. Gets the body out of the habit.”
“I look forward to hearing about Scarborough in the morning.”
Alfred and Edmund were up long before Owen. He slept like the dead, finally waking when a servant came in with a cup of spiced wine and Ravenser’s request that Owen join him as soon as possible in his parlor. He would find bread and more wine in there.
The parlor walls caught Owen’s attention, hung with embroidered panels in vibrant colors. No stories were depicted, rather the panels looked like the edges in illustrated manuscripts, particularly one with animals forming an alphabet. Owen had long ago given up any effort to be inconspicuous when he examined a room, his single eye making it necessary to turn his head this way and that like a bird.
Ravenser stood by the window, the shutter opened to let in a lovely breeze, and smiled at Owen’s study. “You like them?”
Owen sat down, poured more wine, pulled apart a small loaf of pandemain, took a bite, washed it down, sighed and settled back. “I do, but with reservation, Sir Richard. They draw me in, invite me to turn myself on my head to see all the fine features.”
“Too distracting?” Ravenser took a seat opposite Owen.
Owen nodded. “I should accomplish little work in this room.”
“Perhaps that is why the Irish are so difficult to rule. They are too distracted with their dreams.”
“These are Irish embroideries?”
“I was up in Ireland with Sir Lionel for a short time.”
“They say the Irish are much like us.”
“I forgot. You are Welsh.”
“Also difficult to rule. Also dreamers.”
Ravenser shrugged. “I want to hear about Captain Sebastian.”
Owen told him of the conversation in the church.
Ravenser sniffed. “Arrogant traitor. Why should such as he expect knighthood?”
“He is an excellent captain, they say. Men have been knighted for less.”
Ravenser studied Owen. “But not you, eh? Ever resent that, Archer?”
Owen laughed. “A Welsh longbowman? Knighted? I was never fool enough to expect it.”
Ravenser did not join in the laughter. “Yet the old Duke and my uncle entrust you with delicate business. You are an odd one not to resent that.”
“I have a good life, Sir Richard. Far better than I ever dreamed. What do I need with the responsibilities of paying for the mount, arms and livery of squires and soldiers?”
Ravenser grunted. “What of the stewards of Scarborough, the Percies? How did they behave?”
“They have learned, I believe with the help of gold, to look away from the transgressions of the Accloms and Carters, the governing families of the town who happen to be smugglers and thieves. Sir William explained the need for compromise. If he did so with them, most like he also did so with Sebastian. And Sir William has not informed Matthew Calverley that his son, Hugh, was murdered. I think he believes it was Sebastian who ordered Hugh’s death.”
“I see.” Ravenser pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes. “You speak of a powerful family, Archer.” A vein on one eyelid twitched.
“Put aside what I have said if it disturbs you, Sir Richard. I offered it as an explanation, not a battle cry.” Owen had no desire to take on extra tasks in this matter. He was ready to be done with it.
Ravenser nodded, then glanced round to make sure no servants were present. “And what of Maddy’s murder?”
Owen told him about Jack. “I am sorry I let him get away. Edmund believes the man is following us, awaiting his opportunity to attack. Alfred and I are beginning to believe him.”
“You have seen signs of pursuit?”
“No. ’Tis just a sense of eyes at our backs.”
“Good.” Ravenser pushed his chair back from the table. “It is time we were off to St. Mary’s.”
“I thought the vicar was to come here.”
“It appears that Thomas has an ague. We must speak with him in his bedchamber.”
Neither the priest nor the gravedigger had been forthcoming with any new information, though both recognized Edmund, which removed any doubts Owen might have had about Edmund’s story.
“He stood there with his friend, very respectful, and I had the notion the friend was her lover, so sad he looked,” the priest said.
Edmund had seemed shaken by this accurate guess.
Before returning to Ravenser’s house, Owen chose to walk from North Bar to Longford’s house with Edmund as guide. One of Joanna’s stories had been that she had lost her way. He wanted to see if that was likely. It was just Owen and Edmund on this pilgrimage. Alfred had been sent off to a tavern to sit quietly and hear what he might hear.
Edmund led Owen off the main street into a small churchyard. An oak shaded it, and a well tempted the thirsty. “This is where she lost the Magdalene medal. Stefan came here and retrieved it from the priest.”
“Now there is someone might have something interesting to say. How did Stefan find him?”
Edmund shrugged. “I did not accompany him. I never thought to ask.”
Owen stepped into the church, a cool, dark womb smelling of candle wax, incense, and damp stone. It reminded him of Lucie’s suggestion, to seek quiet in the minster. He would do that later. An old woman knelt by a statue of Mary.
“God be with you, Goodwife,” Owen said. “I seek the priest of this church. Do you know where I might find him?”
“He’d be at minster most days, being a canon,” the woman said, never moving her eyes from the statue.
Owen had forgotten the priest might be a canon of Beverley. He could ask Ravenser about him. Back outside, Owen nodded to Edmund to lead on to Longford’s house. The way was not complicated. If Joanna had become lost, it was for some reason other than a few false turnings. The house was visible from the main street they had followed from North Bar.
Edmund stood by the door, watching Owen pace the main room. “What do you expect to find?”
“Nothing. I am sure what is to be found here has been found. I just wanted to see it. See whether I might learn anything of Longford from his house.”
“So what do you learn here of him?”
“The walls are scarred and pocked; the chairs and table have been mended more than once. I would guess he has a fierce temper. Perhaps when he drinks alone.”
Edmund nodded. “You have learned something of him. Will feels God cheated him with the leg. All those years of soldiering and then to fall off his horse escaping a cuckolded husband and crush the leg.” Edmund grinned at Owen’s look of surprise. “You didn’t know?”
“No one has talked much about Longford the man, just his connection with du Guesclin, with Captain Sebastian, Joanna and Hugh Calverley…” Owen shook his head. “Fleeing an angry husband. An embarrassing end to a career.”
“Will brags about it, his wild wenching, his derring-do. But it is a curse to him.”
Owen had seen enough. “Is there good ale to be had in Beverley?”
“I shall show you my favorite inn.”
They had not far to go. The taverner paused as they entered, eyeing Owen’s patch and scar. Then he recognized Edmund. “Been a long while. Is Longford back, too?”
“Nay. I am on other business. Traveling with Captain Archer here, former captain of archers for the old Duke of Lancaster.”
The taverner’s eyes opened wider. “You fought with Henry of Grosmont?”
Owen was accustomed to this response. It usually earned him excellent service in hopes of a good tale or two. “That I did.”
“Then why in God’s name are you traveling with the like of Edmund here? Outlaws they are, same as the one came asking about you.”
Edmund tensed. “Who was that?”
“The one came with you last time. When you were looking for Stefan.”
“Jack?”
The taverner shrugged. “Can’t say as I remember a name.”
“When was he here?” Edmund asked.
“Yesterday. Early in the day.”
“Have you seen him since?”
The taverner shook his head, turned back to Owen. “So why are you traveling with Edmund?”
“The king has welcomed his friends back to his service.”
The taverner’s eyes opened wide, shifted from Owen to Edmund and back. “Then ’tis true what they say, our king is desperate for gold to fight King Charles.” He shook his head. “Hard times are upon us when our king needs the likes of Will Longford.”
After Owen had sent off the taverner with a firsthand account of one of the old Duke’s lesser known exploits, he and Edmund settled down to judging the ale.
“Too bitter, but smooth, clean.” Owen nodded. “I could drink another.”
Edmund drained his cup, called to the taverner for another round. “Told you he was behind us.”
“He’s in front of us now. Biding his time, I think.”
When the taverner came with the pitcher, Owen asked, “This man asking after Edmund. Did he ask after anyone else?”
“A one-eyed archer—yourself, I should think, Longford, Stefan—and a nun, God help us. I asked did he mean the one who died and was resurrected in Our Lady’s mantle. He said was none of my business, which I took as a yes.”
Owen thanked him for the information.
Edmund fell to his drink while Owen studied him. He’d been on the road with Edmund for days now. What had he learned of him? Edmund was quiet, thoughtful, steadfast in his loyalties, or Owen was no judge. “You don’t seem the sort who joins up with someone like Sebastian.”
“I suppose I’m not.”
“What will you do after this?”
“If I find Stefan, my life will go on as it was. But without Stefan”—Edmund wiped his mouth on his sleeve—“I’ll go back to building ships, I suppose.”
“You were a shipwright? Really?”
Edmund nodded. “I was young. An apprentice in Whitby. Working on a ship for Sebastian. Met Stefan, listened to his stories. It sounded like a man’s life, fighting, wenching, drinking, sailing, more fighting.” He smiled sadly at his balled up fist, scarred knuckles. “But the taste for all that weakens with experience. I’d like a wife. Children. A home.” He shrugged. “Still a dreamer, you see.”
“But if Stefan wishes to continue in this life, you will do so?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
Edmund pounded the table lightly with the balled up fist, then opened his hand, pressed it palm down on the table, fingers splayed. He took out his dagger and began the dangerous game of stabbing the table in between each finger, going back and forth on the hand, faster and faster. When the dagger grazed a finger, he stopped, lifted his hand, wiggled the bleeding finger. “Your friend Ned is far better with a dagger than I am, eh? So is Stefan. He never misses. Ever.”
Owen did not see. “And that is why you would stay in this life? Because you admire your friend’s skill with the dagger?”
Edmund shook his head. “Because as a shipwright I shall not meet such a man again. Not likely. I shall meet only cautious men, out to make money and keep their families fed and housed. I can always go back to that. I could not find another Stefan.” Edmund sucked on the finger. “Or you. It’s been interesting meeting you. You looked such a rogue. I was sure one of us had to kill the other. And you decided to trust me.”
Owen shook his head. “It was you decided to trust me, to bargain with me.”
“A shipwright never needs to make such choices.”
“Nor does he have to watch his back.”
“That is your fault, Captain Archer. I had Jack cornered. He would have been dead if you had left me to it.”
Owen did not need to be reminded of that.
At dawn the town was cool and full of intriguing shadows. Owen walked to St. Mary’s graveyard with Ravenser, Edmund, and Alfred, expecting nothing to come of this deed. But he must try it, must put to rest the feeling that there was more in that grave than Ravenser and Louth had noticed.
Old Dan was already at the site, digging, his son with him. The grave was at the edge of the yard, shaded by a tree. Owen looked up at the buildings facing the grave. Sides and backs of houses at a slight distance, no main street nearby. Unless a neighbor had been out relieving himself in the dark, a burial at night might be accomplished here unheeded.
“There he is, just as we left him,” said Old Dan, stepping back.
Owen stepped forward, covering his lower face against the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting flesh, and looked down at the huge, decomposing body. The man had been taller than average and fat, with a barrel-shaped torso and muscular legs. The face was decomposing. It was damp here between the Beck and the Walkerbeck. The bodies would go quickly. The head was at an unnatural angle. “Jaro?” Owen asked, glancing at Edmund.
Edmund nodded. “Jaro indeed. I told you he was a good cook.”
Owen averted his head and took a deep breath, then crouched down at the top of the grave, motioning for Alfred and Edmund to go to the feet. “He will be heavy. Let’s lift him out by the shroud if we can, if it’s not rotten yet.”
Old Dan knelt down beside Owen, gasping at the stench. “With four it’ll be easier.”
They heaved, the shroud held, they lowered and got better grips, then heaved and swung the body to the side of the grave. It landed with a moist thud.
“Sweet Heaven,” Ravenser said. Beneath Jaro was a bloodstained shroud, spread open, empty. But round the top edge curled fingers, torn and bloody. The outline of a man’s head and torso was plain beneath the sheet.
Owen lifted the sheet from the side, avoiding the hands. It was a man, his face distorted in terror, mouth wide open—tongueless, eyes bulging, torso arched upward in the middle. The man had only one leg. “I think we have found Joanna’s nightmare. The man buried alive—Will Longford.” He turned aside, took a deep breath.
“Deus juva me,” Edmund whispered, falling to his knees beside Owen.
“Whoever did it used Jaro’s bulk to weigh Longford down,” Owen said. “And he was not alone.”
Ravenser made the sign of the cross and said a prayer.
“Now what?” Edmund asked.
Owen stood up, dusted his knees. “Now I am most anxious to return to York and find out how Joanna knew of this.”
Scaffolds and tents of stonemasons and other artisans cluttered the front and south side of Beverley Minster. Owen walked past the foundations of the front towers and passed into the nave. It was high and long, filled with summer light.
A stonecutter working inside pointed him toward the north aisle. “My father did his best work down there.”
Owen discovered intricate carvings of musicians, human and animal, fashioned with a sense of humor. Their expressions and gestures were so lively he strained to hear the music.
He moved slowly down the nave, studying the figures. At the shrine of St. John of Beverley he paused, knelt down, said a prayer.
“You were looking for me?”
Owen rose to greet the priest who had found Joanna’s medal. “I wished to ask you about a nun you may have encountered a year past. She lost a medal in your churchyard.”
The young priest nodded. “I know you are somehow connected with her. An odd story, her death and resurrection.”
“She did not die, Father. You do know that?”
The priest shrugged. “We all believe as our conscience leads us, Captain Archer. Yes, I do remember her. She had removed her veil and knelt in the mud when I found her. I had no idea what had happened. The man who came for the medal told me a boy had tried to steal it, she had frightened him, it had dropped in the mud. But she told me only that she must catch up with her companions.”
“Companions?”
The priest shrugged. “A nun never travels alone.”
“But you saw no companions?”
The priest shook his head.
“The man. Tell me about him.”
“Tall, fair, built much like you. I guessed him to be a soldier. Perhaps her lover.” He closed his eyes and clucked his disapproval. “It happens all too often.”
“And yet you think she died and was reborn?”
The priest spread his hands wide. “Christ brought the Magdalene into a new life. This child valued her Magdalene medal. Perhaps her patron saint interceded to save Dame Joanna’s soul. I have heard of the miracle of St. Clement’s.”
Owen ignored that. “You know nothing more of the man?”
“Nothing.”
“Did anyone else ever come seeking the medal. Or the nun?”
The priest shook his head. “She is back at St. Clement’s now?”
“She is in York, under the archbishop’s protection.”
“St. Clement’s will be the richer for her return. In every way. God is benevolent.”
Owen stayed in the minster after the priest had gone, watching the dust dance in sunbeams. This fascination with Joanna’s supposed miracle made him uneasy, made him doubt all miracles. Were they all such wrongheaded rumors? How could one ever know which ones were true? Which ones false? And what about the mantle? So many thought it truly Our Lady’s mantle. How many other relics were frauds? He crossed himself and tried to pray, but went back to staring at the stone musicians. At least they felt right and true.