‘Anything else?’
‘One night when I sat with her she called for someone named Hugh. I thought at first she shouted “You!”, but she was confused when I asked what she needed. Hugh.’ Katherine nodded.
‘She said no more about him?’
‘Nothing. And when she waked, she just frowned when we asked of whom she had dreamed.’
‘I noticed that she wears the mantle she claims to be Our Lady’s.’
Katherine glanced back towards the door. ‘Alas, we have not heard the last of that piece of cloth. Dame Margaret is convinced of her miraculous cure.’
‘Has she worked any miracles in your presence?’
The brown eyes studied him frankly. ‘Captain, you do not believe such a woman would be so blessed by Our Heavenly Mother, do you?’
Owen grinned. ‘I thought you might believe it.’
The cheery face crinkled up in laughter. ‘Oh dear me no, Captain. And neither do these sober monks, praise God. But to answer your question as I believe you meant it, no, I have witnessed nothing that she has later claimed to be a miracle.’
‘And she has not tried to convince any of the monks?’
Katherine frowned. ‘That is a different question. Yes, she takes every opportunity to claim it is a holy relic. Foolish child.’
‘She is hardly a child.’
‘A child within is what I meant, Captain. I believe Joanna is — simple. God forgive me, but that is what I think.’
‘You have been most helpful, Dame Katherine. I thank you.’
Owen left the guest house gladly and headed for the infirmary, hoping Alfred might be awake. But both Alfred and Colin slept. ‘Has Colin wakened at all?’ Owen asked Brother Henry.
The young monk sighed. ‘We assault him with chatter — prayers, stories, songs — but God has deemed fit to sink him deeper and deeper into sleep. He rewards our efforts not at all; not even a flicker of his lids.’
‘Have Louth’s men been to see Alfred?’
Brother Henry nodded. ‘They seemed pleased with his description of the street and hurried off to question all those who live nearby.’
‘How are Alfred’s spirits?’
‘Low. He feels responsible.’
‘Pity he is not awake. I could ease his mind on that account — ’twas I recommended them for the duty.’
Brother Henry shook his head, his young face solemn. ‘You must not blame yourself. Those who assaulted them are to blame, not you or Alfred.’
Owen turned to leave.
‘I pray you stay a moment,’ Henry said. ‘I have something you should see.’ He led Owen to a chest by the fire, took out a dagger. ‘Alfred clutched this when he came in. He says he found it beneath Colin. He says it belongs to Colin’s murderer, though how anyone can say in such an assault which blow was — ’ Henry put his hand to his mouth. ‘Sweet Heaven, do you hear what we do? Both Alfred and I assume Colin will not wake.’ Henry crossed himself and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer.
Owen moved into the lamplight, examined the dagger. The handle was intricately carved with sea serpents. Dark, heavy wood, not metal. It was not a costly weapon. But worn, treasured. Perhaps the owner would return for it? ‘Keep it safe, Brother Henry. It might be of use to us.’
Lucie shook her head at Master Saurian, who was launching into an account of a particularly grisly amputation he had performed at St Leonard’s Hospital. Jasper sat on a stool behind Lucie, ready to reach for jars. Lucie did not wish the boy to overhear anything that might give him nightmares. He had enough of them as it was.
Saurian sniffed. ‘The boy must learn about life, Mistress Wilton. You do him no favour sheltering him.’
‘He knows enough of life for now, Master Saurian.’ She stood poised over the scales on the counter with a jar of spice. ‘How much cardamom did you say?’
Back in the kitchen, the garden door opened and closed. Voices murmured. Owen. Lucie glanced back at Jasper. ‘Go on, now. Owen will be glad of your company.’
Jasper needed no more encouragement. He had begged permission to skip classes today when he had heard of Owen’s return.
Lucie poured the last of the ingredients into a pouch.
Saurian hefted it in his palm as if weighing it. ‘They say you have been to see the resurrected nun.’
‘The prodigal,’ Lucie corrected him. ‘Her death and burial were an act.’
Saurian looked down his long nose. ‘What of the miracles?’
Thank Heaven Jasper was out of the room. ‘I know of none.’
Saurian shook his head. ‘You are a cautious one, Mistress Wilton.’
‘Was there anything else?’ She smiled, but she knew it could not possibly look friendly.
‘No. No, this will do.’ The physician gathered his pouches and departed.
The bead curtain rattled as Owen stepped through from the kitchen. His dark eye had an apologetic cast to it. ‘Bad news?’ Lucie guessed.
Owen squeezed her shoulders. ‘I am off to Leeds in the morning.’
‘But you just arrived. And Sir Robert arrives tomorrow. I hoped you would be here.’ Owen hugged her to him. He smelled of smoke and fresh air and Owen. Lord, she did not want him to leave again so soon.
‘His Grace is set on it,’ he whispered.
Lucie leaned her head against Owen’s shoulder. ‘How vigorously did you protest?’
He held her away from him, lifted her chin so he might see her eyes. ‘Do you think I wish to be away from you so often?’
She shrugged.
‘I miss you all the time I am away. And worry about you.’
‘But you enjoy the adventure.’ She stopped his protest with a finger to his lips. ‘Peace, my love. I do not blame you. I said from the beginning that you would chafe at the bit in the shop. But just now it is particularly hard. With Sir Robert coming. And the child. .’ She looked away as tears welled up. The damnable tears that were so ready to flow these days.
Owen pulled her back into his arms, but the moment was interrupted by the shop bell. More than the moment, Lucie realised with dismay. Sir Robert had arrived a day early.
Eight
A house full of dinner guests on Owen’s second and last night home. It seemed he never had time alone with Lucie except in their bedchamber. And it would be worse with children. Owen tried to dismiss the thought, but it persisted. What did he know of children besides what he could remember of being one? He stared at the floor, his leggings half off, pondering. There was Jasper. He enjoyed Jasper. But the boy had joined their household just this year, at the age of nine. What would it be like with infants about?
Lucie bustled in the door, flushed from rushing about supervising Tildy’s cooking, setting up the table, and checking that all was prepared in the extra chamber, where Sir Robert and his squire would sleep. She paused as she caught sight of Owen, shirt discarded, leggings half off. ‘I know that the day is warm, but really, my love, you must do better than that!’ Then, with a worried, almost frightened expression, she asked, ‘What is it? What troubles you?’
It was no time to admit his doubts. Instead, Owen grabbed Lucie and toppled backwards onto the bed with her squealing in his arms. Pulling off her cap, he let her soft hair tumble into his face.
Lucie tried to wriggle away, gasping for breath. ‘No time!’ she managed. ‘Owen, please!’
With a sigh, he helped her sit up. ‘Could we not send word to Lief and Gaspare that your father has arrived, we have no room for so many at table?’
Lucie shook her hair, fluffing it, then went over to the small table where she kept her brushes and hairpins and a small mirror. ‘There would still be Sir Robert and his squire. It is not possible to rid ourselves of them. So I should prefer your friends at least this night. Some cheerful company.’ She began to arrange her hair.
Owen lounged on the bed, watching her lazily. ‘Sir Robert seemed cheerful enough.’
Lucie turned round to Owen, letting the coil of hair in her hands cascade down her back. ‘He is in good spirits.’ She rose, picked up the gown and surcoat Tildy had laid out, considered them, turning them this way and that. ‘Shall I wear this tonight? Or the blue?’