The Riverwoman’s Dragon
- Автор: Робб Кэндис
- Серия: Owen Archer #13
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Severn House
- ISBN: 978-1-4483-0563-6
- Жанр: Исторические детективы
Электронная книга - «The Riverwoman’s Dragon». Краткое содержание книги:
When the wise woman Magda Digby is suspected of murder, Owen Archer sets out to prove her innocence in this intricately plotted medieval mystery.
May, 1375. Owen Archer returns from London to find York in chaos. While the citizens are living in terror of the pestilence which is spreading throughout the land, a new physician has arrived, whipping up fear and suspicion against traditional healers and midwives. With the backing of the new archbishop, he is especially hostile towards Magda Digby, the wise woman who has helped and healed the people of York for many years. At the same time, Magda is uneasy about the arrival of two long-lost kinsfolk. Though they say they are seeking her help, she senses a hidden agenda.
Magda’s troubles deepen when she discovers a body in the river near her home – and finds herself under suspicion of murder. Days later, fire rips through a warehouse in the city. Amongst the charred debris lies the body of a man – not burned, but stabbed in the back. Could there be a connection to the corpse in the river?
Determined to prove Magda’s innocence, Owen sets out to find answers – but the more he uncovers, the deeper the mystery becomes…
The quiet moment was shattered by Hempe clattering through the gate, his bald head uncovered, hat crushed in his hand. ‘Something is not right about Guthlac’s death and this hasty burial.’
‘We bury folk quickly in a plague summer, you know that.’
‘Still.’
‘What troubles you?’
‘Last night Lotta and I called on the Wolcotts to honor the vigil, sit up for a while with Dame Beatrice. It was warm in the room, a window open to allow his soul to escape and I knelt there for the air. Gavin kept slipping in and out of the room – I could hear him out in the garden. And every time, Dame Beatrice would look up – something about how she did, she was not mourning, she was – anticipating? It felt wrong, all of it. When we departed I slipped out back and there was a cart piled high with belongings, a manservant standing guard. He said that after the burial Dame Beatrice wished to go to her parents. Master Gavin would escort her there while they were burning the bedding of the late master and purifying the house. Lotta was annoyed with me for behaving as if I suspected them of some crime, and when I told her what the servant had said she thought it a kind act on Gavin’s part. Of course the young widow would find comfort in her parents. But Lotta woke me this morning. “I just remembered that her parents are dead,” she said. “Beatrice’s. Folk whispered when they were wed, that young child to that old man, that her brother was eager to marry her off. She and his wife were always sparring.” I was forgiven for my distrust.’
‘Where are they headed?’ Owen wondered. ‘And what is of such value in that cart it must be watched?’
‘And isn’t it curious that Master Bernard neither sat the vigil last night nor attended the service this morning.’
‘I heard the bells chime the end of the service. Did you stay throughout? Are they on their way to the cemetery?’
‘I did not stay. I needed to see you, talk this over.’
‘He might have arrived late–’ Owen thought about Asa tending Jack Fuller. ‘Or there might be trouble at his lodging. I mean to stop there after the burial.’
‘Might we go now? We might pass the procession on the street.’
‘I need food, my friend. I’ve not yet broken my fast. Come. I will not be long.’
He found Michaelo in the kitchen, talking to Lucie. Nodding a greeting to Hempe, the monk proffered Owen a wax tablet. ‘I propose this letter to the prince.’
Owen read while he ate bread and cheese and washed it down with some ale. Short, succinct, stating the details so that Prince Edward might decide whether or not to send an envoy. His only quibble was vowing to take Bernard – Alan – into custody and question him, holding him if his suspicions seemed justified. That might be Owen’s intention, but to promise such to the prince was unwise.
‘Say that the man will be watched, questioned, and prevented from leaving the city.’
Michaelo nodded. ‘Perhaps I might add, “should he survive the sickness in his household.”’
‘A grim practicality,’ said Owen as he returned the tablet, ‘but unnecessary. How soon can you send it?’
‘Archdeacon Jehannes knows of a messenger heading south on the morrow. It will travel with him. I will deliver it for you to sign and seal before I see to the sick in the minster yard.’ The prince had given Owen a seal specific to his correspondence so that all might know to expedite it.
Thanking him, Owen took Lucie aside to tell her what troubled Hempe, and where they were headed.
‘I will watch Guthlac’s burial, tell you if I notice anything of note,’ she said. ‘You might ask Michaelo to accompany you. He mentioned calling on the Fullers to offer help if they needed him. If they do not require him, I could use him in the shop today. Jasper wishes to walk the prayer procession in St Helen’s midday.’
Bess and Tom Merchet stood in the tavern yard with their staff and a few others, quietly awaiting the burial procession. Owen and his companions were turning into Coney Street when they met the solemn processional. They pressed close to the building to make room. As the coffin passed, Owen bowed his head and crossed himself. Gavin and three other merchants served as bearers, walking in solemn gait behind the priest and two clerks, one holding a crucifix aloft, the other carrying the censer. Dame Beatrice Wolcott followed, her eyes lowered, hands pressed together in prayer. Behind her were a few neighbors and a small group who seemed to turn out for all burials. No sign of the leech.
‘Any word from your watch on the Wolcott home?’ Owen asked Hempe.
‘I have two on the watch, one who can see the front of the house from the Ferriby yard, one who can watch the area in the back garden, and the loaded cart. The one in front saw a man arrive late in the night with a package, large and apparently heavy, drawn quickly and quietly into the house. The one watching the cart saw that package placed in the cart before dawn.’
‘Any thoughts on what it contained?’
‘None. Perhaps something from the warehouse?’
‘So late at night?’
‘I know. During the day I have only one watcher posted. Less conspicuous. He’s playing gardener at the Ferriby house,’ said Hempe. ‘The letter to the prince. You are convinced the leech is the Alan that His Grace seeks?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘God help us.’
After knocking on the door to the Fuller home Owen stepped back, assailed by a pungent cloud of juniper-laden smoke wafting from a shuttered window. It would ever be a plague smell to him. Michaelo murmured a prayer.
Janet Fuller opened the door a crack to peer out, her hair wild about her, clinging to her sweaty face. ‘Captain Archer and Bailiff Hempe.’ She seemed to choke on their names. Swinging the door wider, she said, ‘And Brother Michaelo. Bless you for your kindness yesterday.’ As the monk stepped forward she held up a hand to stay him. ‘This is a plague house. My Jack is beyond help. God will soon call him. Cilla fell ill this morning.’ Her voice broke. ‘And Asa, he beat her so badly I fear for her.’ She bowed her head. ‘To pay such a price for her kindness. Her friend Einar is with her.’
‘Who beat her?’ Owen asked.
‘My brother. Alan.’
‘Is he here now?’ Hempe asked.
‘No.’
From an arm’s length back Owen tried to peer beyond her, but he could see little in the dimly lit room. ‘But Einar is here?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He has seen to her, comforting her where she lay after the beating. She was in such pain. I did not know what to do. I feared if I moved her I might cause more injury.’
‘If you would tell us what happened,’ said Owen. ‘When was Alan here?’
‘He returned late in the evening. I was sitting by my daughter’s bed behind the screen, holding her hand and singing to her while Dame Asa lanced Jack’s boils. The stench of it–’ Janet sobbed.
‘And he beat her?’ Owen asked.
A sharp nod. ‘He pulled Dame Asa from the chair where she sat by my husband and threw her against the wall. She lay there unmoving. But he kept beating her. Kicked her, struck her with the chair, stepped on her right hand until I heard– Mother Mary, stomping and grinding and shouting that he would save the world from her sorcery, her vile drawings, the poppet curses, her thievery. But he is wrong. Alan is the devil’s foot soldier, not Asa.’