The Riverwoman’s Dragon

Matthew Brown lay face down in the burnt remains of his home, the blood from three stab wounds to his back soaking into the ashes beneath him. He reeked of ale. Owen imagined him drinking the day away and then returning to see whether his home was truly gone, or whether the misfortune had been a drunken dream.

‘And I was dreading the pestilence,’ Hempe muttered as Alfred filled them in on how he was found.

‘God be thanked his wife – widow is away, or so says the widow Toller,’ said Owen.

‘A pair of widows now,’ said Alfred. ‘Who will break the news?’

‘Are we certain that she did not return?’ asked Hempe. ‘That we won’t find her dead as well?’

‘She would have come hurrying home at the news,’ said a woman standing in the street. ‘I fear they are right, we are punished for seeking the aid of a pagan healer.’

‘Who has said that?’ asked Owen.

The woman crossed herself and scurried off.

‘She cannot think that God stabbed one of his children in the back,’ said Hempe.

‘The question is, who did stab him?’ said Owen.

On his way home, Owen noticed that what had been an undercurrent of fear was now on the surface. Furtive glances, muted greetings, small groups huddled together whispering, children’s hands held tightly as parents hurried them along. His job would be the more difficult for it.

Lucie pressed Owen’s hands, looking deep into his eyes. ‘You could not foresee Matthew’s death. You’d no cause to expect it.’

She’d held his one-eyed gaze, steady in her conviction, as Owen ran through all that he knew of the fire – very little, and of Lettice and Matthew Brown – even less. As far as anyone knew they had no connection to either Sam or his wife, so no obvious connection to Sam’s murder. And it was still possible that Lettice Brown might be alive. He took a deep breath and allowed that Lucie was right. He wasted time blaming himself for Matthew’s murder. But he did now have two murders to solve. And Guthlac was dying – was that another? He told Lucie of the man’s condition.

‘Perhaps we might–’

She nodded. ‘Though it sounds as if we might be too late, I will call on them on the morrow, offer some tinctures that might strengthen him.’

Hoping for better news, Owen asked Lucie about her day in the shop.

‘Dame Marian came asking for anything I have found of help to the victims of pestilence and those attending them. One of the lay workers has the fever and boils and the infirmarian expects it will quickly spread to the community outside the walls where the lay workers live.’

So the Death had reached Clementhorpe just beyond the city walls. ‘God help us.’ Owen crossed himself. ‘Is Marian well?’

‘She is. Radiant with well-being and clearly at peace with herself and enjoying her place in the community. Seeing her now makes plain how weak she was in body and spirit when she came to us in winter.’ Dame Marian had been brought to their home for safekeeping after a months-long ordeal. She had been weak, confused, and despairing of being accepted back into the Benedictine order. But under the guidance of the precentrice she was now responsible for the music in the services at St Clement’s Priory throughout the day. Her angelic voice and musical talent had transformed masses at the priory. In a matter of months she had drawn folk from around the city to their small chapel.

‘Why is she running errands for the infirmarian?’

‘Because she bided with a plague sufferer the past summer without succumbing to the illness. She has offered her services in the infirmary should she be needed.’

‘I am sorry I missed her.’

‘As was she. She offers her support for Magda in any official inquiries. If she is needed, she will speak, write, whatever is most effective.’

A heartening bit of news. ‘Had the priory received the archbishop’s letter?’

‘Their chaplain did. It was shared in chapter. Dame Euphemia, Crispin’s mother, expressed outrage and most of the sisters followed, though in more subdued manner. There are a few who disapprove of consulting a pagan healer, but Marian excused them as generally lacking good sense.’

Brother Michaelo had not brought Owen a copy of the letter, nor his written record of the morning’s conversation with Mayor Graa. He hoped he would also include a copy of Jehannes’s letter. Perhaps on the morrow. Pestilence, the murders, a physician stirring up ill feelings against Magda, just when the people needed her. ‘It is an ill wind that blows,’ he muttered.