‘Let us see whether calming makes her more pliant,’ Lucie said.
Joanna had been brought down to the parlour of the guest house; she sat propped up with blankets and cushions in a chair by the window. Today she wore the mantle like a shawl. Owen was struck by her remarkable green eyes and the pallor that made her freckles look inky.
But when she turned to study him, Owen no longer thought her eyes beautiful. They seemed to see him and then continue through him, at once vague and intense.
‘Captain Archer. You have returned.’
‘I bring news of your family.’
Joanna frowned and dropped her eyes. ‘You labour in vain to please, for I would fain hear none of such news.’
‘You are not curious about your family?’
The green eyes looked him up and down. ‘You are not the first well-muscled man I have seen, you know.’ Joanna sniffed, dismissing him.
Owen halted on that change of subject. Lucie had warned him of Joanna’s rapid shifts in thought, but it was still disquieting.
‘You do know that, Captain?’ Joanna asked, now teasing.
Owen had caught his balance. ‘I hear your brother Hugh is quite a warrior. Is it he of whom you speak?’
Joanna glanced over at Lucie, then down at the Magdalene medal, which she proceeded to turn round and round in her hands.
‘Is that your Mary Magdalene medal?’
Joanna took a deep breath. ‘They have bled me and purged me, these Christians, then poisoned me again. What do you think of that? Would you feel safe in such a place?’
Owen glanced over at Lucie, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She was not about to come to his aid. ‘Why would they do such a thing — purge you, then poison you?’
Joanna’s pale lips curved into a smile. ‘An empty stomach drinks the poison faster. But I have tripped them up.’
Owen might disagree that she had been poisoned, but he knew she would not accept his argument. ‘How did you trip them up?’
Joanna touched the blue mantle. ‘Our Lady protects me.’
Owen wondered how she could put so much faith in such an ordinary piece of cloth. ‘Why would anyone wish to poison you?’
The eyebrows arched. ‘I am cursed,’ she stated, as if surprised he did not know.
‘But you say that Our Lady protects you. Would she protect a cursed soul?’
The stubby hands clenched the medal until they trembled with the effort. The jaw clenched. Anger or fear? ‘You have been to Leeds?’ Joanna asked suddenly. She did not look at Owen, but out of the window. ‘You have climbed Calvary?’
‘Yes. I met your father.’
After a long pause. ‘He is a silly man.’
‘He is your father.’
Joanna looked Owen in the eye. ‘More’s the pity.’
Owen tried smiling. ‘For him or for you?’
She did not return the smile, but leaned forward, frowning. ‘Do you go now to Scarborough?’
The abrupt question, such an excellent guess, made Owen wonder who might have told her. But he could think of no one.
Now Joanna smiled. It was not a friendly smile. Head down, eyes looking up through the brows, as if she had tricked him. ‘No one told me. It is the logical thing to do. You are on a pilgrimage of disgrace.’
This woman was neither mad nor possessed of evil spirits. Why did she expend so much energy on clever avoidance? ‘If I go to Scarborough, whom shall I see there?’
‘The Devil.’
‘And who is he?’
Joanna cocked her head to one side, still smiling. ‘Will the sins of the father be visited upon your child? Will she have but one eye?’
Owen jerked back as if slapped.
Lucie, who had been gazing out the window, lost in her own thoughts, looked up, first at Owen, then at Joanna, and back to Owen with a frown.
Joanna put a hand to her mouth, no longer smiling. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to be cruel. There is naught to be won from cruelty. Christ should have known that.’
Christ? Owen tucked that one away. He wished to return to the Devil. ‘Did you meet the Devil in Scarborough, Dame Joanna?’
She dropped her gaze to her lap again. ‘I am very tired.’
Owen could not guess whether she was truly tired or just avoiding the question. He thought the latter. ‘Who is this Devil? Will Longford?’
Joanna shivered, closed her eyes. ‘Jaro’s neck is broken.’
‘Who killed him?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I did not like him. But no one should die like that.’
‘When you ran away from St Clement’s, did you run to a lover?’
Joanna looked up, laughter in her eyes. ‘And do nuns have lovers? St Clement’s is but a tiny priory. Where might I hide him?’ She looked over at Lucie. ‘You are getting angry with me. You must understand. I cannot think about these things.’
‘Why?’ Lucie asked.
‘What things?’ added Owen.
Joanna shrugged. ‘Well, surely if you do not agree what is important, I cannot judge.’
‘You play with us,’ Owen said. ‘Cleverly. But you ruin your own game if you mean to make us think you are mad. Such cleverness does not describe madness.’
Joanna grew solemn. Her eyes turned inward.
‘Joanna?’ Owen touched her hand.
She jerked it away from him, eyes wide, staring into his. ‘Noli me tangere.’
‘Why must I not touch you?’
Joanna did not reply.
‘Please, Joanna, tell me what has happened,’ Owen said.
The eyes focused on him once more, studied his face, moved along his shoulders. Joanna reached out and took his hand, studied the palm, turned it over, studied the back of his hand, touched it to her cheek. ‘You are someone I might have loved.’
‘I am honoured.’
Joanna let go of his hand. ‘But I am cursed now. I yearn for death.’
‘Then why complain that someone poisoned you?’
‘I was not complaining.’
‘What, then?’
She shrugged. ‘Wondering is all.’
‘I wanted to tell you about Hugh and the arm of St Sebastian.’
‘He sold it to Will Longford.’
‘No. He sold nothing to Will Longford. It was a seal he carried, from a French soldier.’
Joanna giggled. ‘We lied to him. It was St Hardulph of Breedon, not St Sebastian.’
‘There was no arm,’ Owen said softly.
Joanna looked away. Her hands clenched the Magdalene medal. ‘Am I to understand that Hugh did not sell the arm of St Hardulph to Will Longford?’
‘That is right.’
Joanna took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It is still at the parish church in Leeds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor Hardulph,’ she said flatly.
Owen closed his eye and pressed beneath the patch, where a shower of painful needle pricks gave physical form to his frustration.
Joanna leaned forward, gently touched Owen’s scar beneath the patch. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I see the eye?’
‘No. Why do you think Christ was cruel?’
‘Because He was. To Mary Magdalene He was. He took her love, then cast her aside.’
‘That is not the usual version.’
Joanna bit her bottom lip, looked away. ‘How goes my mother?’
God’s blood, Owen had almost forgotten. He had prepared a gradual approach to the sad news, but now his plans were undone. However, perhaps a shock might trip Joanna up. Lucie would not approve. But if he did not ask, she could not protest. ‘Your mother is dead.’
Joanna started. ‘What?’ She fluttered her hands as if swatting the thought away. ‘No.’ She leaned forward and peered into Owen’s good eye for a long moment, then sat back, shaking her head. ‘The Boulains are mad. But that is no death.’
‘She is dead, Joanna. She drowned in the river.’
Joanna looked frightened. She glanced over her shoulder, shivered. ‘Watery graves,’ she said softly.
‘Who else has a watery grave?’
Joanna stood up abruptly. ‘Go away, you one-eyed scoundrel. You cannot have my body. It has been promised to the Devil. He shall devour me as — ’ She shook her head, sat down suddenly. Hiding her face with her hands, she began to sob.