‘Why is that?’
‘The colour of the skin is not as it should be. I believe he was cut with a poisoned blade.’
The abbot paused for a heartbeat, then turned to Jasper. ‘Can you find the captain for us?’
With a nod, Jasper set out in the direction of the abbey gates, shivering now not only with the cold, but also about the miserable result of his fellows’ actions and the jagged tempers of the people.
Now Drogo whimpered in pain and cursed his mate for plucking him from the kind waters of the Ouse. He cursed him for bringing back the pain, the threads of fire that radiated ever farther out from his wounds, torturing him for the sins for which he’d already been shriven by God and the river. My girls — God protect my daughters and my wife.
Owen Archer had spent the afternoon in the barracks of Archbishop Thoresby’s guards with Alfred, his second in command. For almost eight years they had worked together protecting the archbishop and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, the north-western section of the city surrounding the archbishop’s palace, York Minster, and the school and residences connected to both. Owen’s duties had often been extended to include protecting other dignitaries who had asked for the archbishop’s protection — as the second most powerful representative of the Church in England and former Lord Chancellor of the realm, John Thoresby was a man of influence.
But even the powerful slow with age, and as Thoresby had been ailing for the past year he no longer travelled to Westminster or King Edward’s court, but rather spent his time now in Yorkshire. Today Owen and Alfred had been discussing the logistics of Thoresby’s imminent move to his palace of Bishopthorpe for Advent. In addition to his other duties, Owen was steward of Bishopthorpe; he had just returned from his monthly visit to the estate and was informing Alfred, who was to lead the half-dozen guards who would attend the archbishop, of changes, projects in progress, and new considerations for guarding the archbishop in his failing health.
Alfred, who had been frowning down at his hands and occasionally nodding, suddenly interrupted Owen’s monologue. ‘I don’t understand why His Grace wishes to bide at Bishopthorpe in this season. There’s such a wheezing in his chest, and that palace sits right on the Ouse, it’s damp and chill.’ Alfred shivered. ‘There will be flood waters soon, mark me. It’s no place for His Grace.’ He took off his cap, his pate shiny where it had once held a shock of straw-coloured hair, and scratched his scalp, leaving trails of reddened skin.
Owen agreed with Alfred; a mere fortnight past Thoresby had returned to the city saying he wished to escape the late autumn rains on the river; but he later confided that he could not bear the isolation of Bishopthorpe for long. ‘His Grace means by returning to Bishopthorpe to appease Dean John. They complain he’s spent too much time in the city of late.’
Although Thoresby was Archbishop of York, the dean and the chapter of canons were the administrators of the great cathedral and its properties, and his chancellor was in charge of the schools. They had become accustomed to little supervision by their archbishops and felt threatened by Thoresby’s frequent and extended residence in the city.
‘But His Grace has spent the better part of the year at Bishopthorpe,’ said Alfred.
‘Aye. It’s his frequent returns to the city they don’t like, no matter how brief. They claim folk are gossiping about how he distrusts them, though I’ve heard no such talk.’
‘Can’t they see he’s ill!’
‘Of course they see. Perhaps it’s just as well. In truth, he’s glad to escape the controversy over Master Nicholas Ferriby’s grammar school. Chancellor Thomas has threatened Nicholas with excommunication, Dean John supports the threat, and Nicholas’s brother Canon William has voiced his support — now they cannot understand why His Grace will not.’ Owen was glad of Thoresby’s stance, for his children’s nurse, Alisoun, was thriving in Ferriby’s school.
‘And no wonder His Grace won’t support their complaint,’ said Alfred, ‘excommunication for competing with the minster school? It’s daft. His brother William has no backbone.’
‘William’s reacting to the early rumours that he was protecting Nicholas,’ said Owen. ‘Their enemies said the Ferriby brothers were building power, that they meant to have Peter mayor and William dean.’ Owen and Lucie were close friends of Peter and Emma Ferriby, so they had heard much of the rumours when they were first spread about. Both Peter and William had tried to distance themselves from their brother Nicholas once it was clear he intended to stay in the liberty. The dean and chapter felt that over the years the chapter’s influence in the city had been chipped away by the mayor, council, and bailiffs, and the existence of competing schools in the city threatened the income from students’ fees that covered the upkeep of St Peter’s School and the master’s expenses. Although neither Peter nor William had high ambitions in the city they did not want to risk losing what comfortable success they enjoyed — Peter was a successful and prominent member of the Mercers Guild and William, as keeper of the minster fabric, held great responsibility for the upkeep of the magnificent cathedral and claustral buildings.
As for the archbishop’s support, Owen understood why the dean and chancellor might have assumed Thoresby’s cooperation. Five years earlier he had censored the opening of song schools in the city, but their purpose was ecclesiastical, not practical like a grammar school, and Thoresby now insisted the difference was everything. To Dean John and Chancellor Thomas it was another sign of the rising power of the York laity.
‘In the long run it would be far more comfortable for everyone, particularly Master Nicholas, if he moved his school out of the minster liberty,’ Owen said. ‘Surely — ’
A banging on the door interrupted him. He opened it with such a jerk that Jasper almost fell into the room.
‘What is it, lad?’ Owen asked as his foster son slumped down onto a bench and fought to catch his breath. ‘Alfred, is there anything to drink?’
Alfred picked up a jug on a windowsill and shook it. ‘Aye, though it’s only well water,’ he said as he poured a cup.
Jasper took it with thanks and drank it down.
‘A bargeman fell into the river and almost drowned.’ Jasper paused to burp. ‘They took him to the Virgin at the abbey gate. As Master Nicholas approached him he began to bleed, and people are saying he’s a murderer, though Drogo — the bargeman — isn’t dead. Brother Henry would have you look at the wounds because he thinks they are poisoned.’
‘Whose wounds?’ Owen asked.
‘Drogo’s,’ said Jasper.
‘Who went in the water?’ Alfred asked as he refilled Jasper’s cup.
‘Drogo, the pilot, the one we were looking for.’ Jasper drank down the second cup.
‘Are his wounds mortal?’ Owen asked.
Jasper shook his head. ‘Slits on his face, neck and hands. They didn’t look deep. But if the blade was poisoned …’ he raised his eyebrows.
That would make all the difference. Owen nodded, and was about to remind Jasper that he’d promised not to participate in the battles between the scholars and the bargemen — the latter being a rough lot — but he decided to hold his tongue until he heard more. ‘Why were you looking for him?’ he asked.
Jasper pressed his hands to his eyes and shook his head slowly, as if wondering that himself. ‘We wanted to recover a scrip that Hubert de Weston lost a fortnight ago. This Drogo had grabbed it and then refused to return it.’
A bargeman teaching a boy a lesson. It seemed innocent enough. ‘That’s all?’
‘Aye. But none of us would attack him with a poisoned blade.’
No, Owen did not think that likely. ‘How was Master Nicholas involved?’ he asked.