Fourteen
The in-between time as the earth warmed gradually to spring always brought on much illness. The shop was busy, and Lucie was glad of Owen's help. She could leave him while she sat for a while with Nicholas, knowing that Owen would come for her if he was uncertain how to proceed.
This morning she had used this new freedom to creep up the stairs after the Archdeacon and eavesdrop on his conversation with Nicholas. It was a sneaky, distasteful thing to do, but she must somehow discover what was between them. Why the Archdeacon visited. Nicholas did not wish to speak of it, and she was afraid that if she pried too much, he would grow secretive.
She did not hear the beginning. And what she heard did not clarify much. But it did frighten her.
'-but what has he to do with it?' Nicholas asked in a querulous voice. 'You said no one knew. You promised me.'
'He is a slippery creature, Nicholas’
'He must not — '
'Shush, Nicholas, shush’ A quiet moment. Lucie held her breath, fearful of being discovered in the sudden silence. Her head was against the door, her wimple pushed aside so she might hear. 'You have nothing to fear,' Anselm finally said. 'He will learn nothing, tell no one. I promise you.'
'How? You say he is slippery.' Lucie did not like the pitch of Nicholas's voice. He had improved a little. This would set him back. She yearned to interrupt them, but she could not.
'I have' — the Archdeacon paused — 'set him on a new path. Something that will consume his time.'
A long silence.
'I cannot live with this,' Nicholas suddenly cried.
'You would have done better to come to me.' The Archdeacon's voice was cold. 'But it is done.' His voice softened. 'Rest now, Nicholas. I will leave you. I must not weary you.'
With that, Lucie turned to go. She took one step down and saw, there in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs, Owen, silently watching her. Dear God. Behind her, footsteps approached the door. Her heart raced. She feared Anselm far more than she feared Owen Archer. She stepped down, in her panic forgetting to lift her skirts, and tripped on her hem. She felt herself begin to fall. Foolish. Stupid. Strong arms caught her. Owen scooped her up and carried her down to the kitchen. Tildy was scrubbing the table. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of her mistress in the arms of the apprentice. Owen set Lucie down quickly.
'Mistress Wilton tripped on the ladder in the shop, Tildy. Make sure she sits still for a while, and get her something to drink’
'Oh dear. Oh yes. Sir. Ma'am.' She led Lucie over to the bench by the fire, and helped her readjust her wimple.
Owen returned to the shop. The Archdeacon stood in the doorway, dabbing his face. When he became aware of Owen's presence, he nodded and departed.
Lucie welcomed the shawl that Tildy draped over her shoulders, and the warmed ale. Her hands shook as she lifted the cup to her lips. Tildy exclaimed over the torn hern and sat down right there to mend it. While Tildy worked, Lucie tried to forget the feeling of Owen's arms catching her, picking her up. The smell of him. The warmth.
Why had he been standing there? How long had he been there? Those were the important facts to find out. Not how it felt to be in his arms.
And then the conversation between the Archdeacon and Nicholas. Who was slippery? What could Nicholas not live with? Her spying had gained her nothing but a fright and an embarrassing tumble into Owen's arms.
'There’ Tildy said, rising and nodding at the patched hem. ' 'Tisn't pretty, but it won't trip you again.' She blushed at Lucie's thanks and shuffled back to her scrubbing.
Lucie took a deep breath and went into the shop. Owen was with a customer, so she waited, fussing with jars and spoons, trying not to look at him. When at last they were alone she asked, 'Had you come looking for me? Was there a problem?'
'Aye. A question about Alice de Wythe's unguent.'
'I heard Nicholas raise his voice. I did not want the Archdeacon upsetting him.'
'I'm sorry I frightened you.'
'I owe you thanks for breaking my fall. My hem — Her face grew hot under his regard. The one eye seemed to see right through her. 'What was the question?'
He started, then grinned. 'A safer subject, to be sure.' She wanted to slap him for his insolence, but he wiped the grin off his face and got down to business without another comment.
Not that the incident was forgotten. Throughout the day she caught him watching her with an intensity that made her uneasy. Not the shy, cautious watching that meant attraction, but a wary watchfulness. He was not fooled by her explanation of why she'd been standing there, her head against the door. Or perhaps her own fear coloured her judgement. But he was wondering. Oh yes, he must be wondering why she would eavesdrop on her husband and a visitor. She must be more careful.
And yet it was not just she that seemed to distract Owen that day. When he took his eyes off her movements it was to watch the shop door, as if he expected a visitor.
At last she asked, 'Did someone promise to come today? You watch the door as if your anxious eye might make the person appear.'
'I — no, I expect no one.'
Owen paced his room that evening, trying to forget the feel of Lucie in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, her arms around his neck. All evening down in the tavern he'd caught himself thinking about her. The scent of her hair, her slenderness. More to the point, he should be thinking of a way to find out what she had been doing there, obviously listening in on her husband's conversation with the Archdeacon. Did she suspect something? Or was she worried that they knew something?
Today had been hell on earth, trying not to think of her and waiting for permission to question Wulfstan. Owen was worried about the monk. He should have told the Abbot that he was concerned. Perhaps that would have gained him an audience.
And this evening Owen had waited for Digby down in the tavern, but the man had not appeared. It was irksome, his not coming. Owen needed to tell him that Brother Wulfstan had told the Archdeacon of his visit. And he needed to make sure he knew all that Digby and Wulfstan had said before he spoke with the Infirmarian.
He tried to stop pacing, but it was agony to sit still. It was not an unreasonable hour. Digby might yet appear. Perhaps Owen had given up too soon. But he'd found the wait tedious. Bess was too busy to talk with him, and Tom was not a conversationalist.
Besides, all the sitting had made Owen restless. He felt a dull ache in his lower back from sitting too long on hard wood benches. Even a saddle was better for the muscles. He would take a walk in the direction of Digby's rooms, now there was an idea. If the house was dark, he would walk on by. But if not, he would see if the Summoner might talk with him. Then he would rest easier.
The snow on the streets had refrozen in icy ridges. Fresh snow fell, stinging his face and blinding him as the flakes thawed on his warm eyelashes and dripped into his eye. Owen cursed, blinking away the moisture. He knew he would have the same problem if he had both eyes. He knew what bothered him was the lack of a second line of defence to put to work when one eye failed. He might stumble in that moment of blindness and crash down upon the frozen ground. It did not help to know what bothered him. Pah. He'd become an old man, plagued by fears.
Few people were about. Perhaps the hour was less reasonable than he'd thought. He doubted he'd find Digby's landlady still up. Well, he'd needed the walk.
He came upon the house, which was well lit on the lower floor. The front door gaped wide. A small cluster of folk stood across the street, watching the house. Some raggedy children lurked by the door.
The light from the house glinted in the eyes of the watchers as they considered him and then stepped farther back into the shadows. The children moved away from the door as he knocked.