The Riverwoman’s Dragon

‘Did you find any knives?’

‘I was not looking for them,’ said Einar.

‘Where is your brother now?’ Owen asked Janet.

‘He must have run out into the night when I went to the kitchen for a cleaver. He was gone when I came back and has not returned, praise God.’

‘We must take Asa to Dame Magda,’ said Einar. ‘You can search her scrip then.’

Owen looked to Michaelo. ‘Can you and Einar fashion a litter and bring her out? Hempe and I can then take her.’

‘I will take her,’ said Einar. ‘If Brother Michaelo would stay with Dame Janet.’

‘Of course,’ said Michaelo.

Janet protested.

‘I pray you, permit me to be of help,’ said the monk. ‘I have been among victims of the sickness and have not as yet fallen ill, nor do I have family to protect.’

‘Are you certain?’ When Michaelo nodded, Janet said, ‘Bless you,’ and stepped away.

While Einar led the monk to Asa, Janet checked the table by her husband, returning to say Alan must have taken the knives.

As expected. Owen asked if she had all she needed, listened to her requests, promised to return with them after Asa was settled.

Hempe nodded. ‘It is a long way through the city to Magda’s rock. I will fetch a cart and alert my men to search for – I will tell them Bernard. It is how they know him. When you go through Bootham, ask whether the gatekeeper saw him. That will be one less task to assign.’

With a nod, Owen settled on the step to await Hempe’s return, trying to imagine where Alan might flee. A frustrating endeavor, for he hardly knew the man. He rose to pace and think, but his mind kept turning to the brutality of Alan’s attack.

When Hempe at last appeared leading a donkey and cart, Owen hurried to him. It was a rickety thing, lurching to one side. Seeing it, Owen asked Janet for a hammer.

‘You will find one in the shed behind the house.’

It was the work of a few minutes to repair the axle well enough for the journey.

‘The carter will be pleased,’ said Hempe. ‘I paid him far more than this is worth, and now you have repaired it.’

‘For the moment,’ Owen said. ‘As you say, it is a long way.’

Einar and Brother Michaelo brought Asa out on a board that likely served as the family’s table. She was wrapped in a shawl, but with enough of her face visible to see the swelling, the bruises, and the caked blood on her forehead. Those were only the visible injuries. Though Asa did not appear to be conscious, she gasped and moaned as they tilted the board to lift it up into the cart. Owen curled his hands into fists imagining what he would do to the cur when he found him.

Owen would remember little of the slow journey across Foss Bridge and through the city that warm, sunny morning. On such a summery day one would expect the streets to be filled with people young and old finding cause to be out enjoying the warmth on their skin, the light. But if they crowded the streets he traversed they must have made way, for he recalled no obstacles. Neither did he remember any conversation with Einar, and Asa did not regain consciousness for all the motion. He was lost in combing through all that he had heard or thought about Alan in search of missed warnings. Never had he imagined the man capable of the violence he had inflicted on Asa. Why had he not anticipated it? Because he called himself a healer? His pose of piety? Owen had never imagined the man could be so easily provoked to physical brutality. Even a man facing death for treason – to beat a woman with such brutal intent felt far beyond anything he might have expected. Or was it? How many men beat their wives after being crossed in far more mundane ways, often not by her but by someone else? Too many. And a man accused of treason was a desperate man.

A thought gnawed at him. Was he no better than the folk who easily believed violence of women healers, curses, spells, but would never so accuse a physician, leech, barber? Alan’s contempt for female healers – had that not been the warning sign? Owen might have guessed. He might have warned Asa.

‘God go with you, Captain Archer.’

Owen snapped to attention at the greeting from the gatekeeper at Bootham Bar. Not his friend today but Oswald, younger, less experienced, though diligent and trustworthy.

‘Plague death?’ Oswald asked, keeping his distance and holding a cloth to his nose.

‘A victim of a brutal beating, not dead, God be thanked. Have you seen the leech Bernard come through?’

‘Master Bernard?’ Oswald shook his head. ‘Not today. But he would be at the Wolcott burial, would he not?’

‘He was not. I thought perhaps he had been summoned from the city.’

‘If he was, not in this direction. Most folk head out this way to consult the Riverwoman.’

‘As do I.’

Oswald waved them through, wishing them Godspeed.

‘She has not moved,’ said Einar from the cart.

‘Better that she not suffer the journey. Did you give her something to help her sleep?’