Brother Sebastian opened the door into a cheery room with a fire just right for the cool morning and a tempting scent of fresh bread baked with herbs. Abbot Campian rose from a chair where he had been reading. He was not a young man, but his face was smooth, neither laughter nor frown lines adorning it. A man who took care to keep emotions at bay. He signed the blessing over Lucie and welcomed her to sit at the small table. Sebastian backed out of the room and closed the door softly. Campian poured wine for both of them. Lucie noted his white hands. Owen had told her that Abbot Campian had the cleanest hands he had ever seen. They were remarkable. Lucie glanced up at Campian’s eyes, expecting to see them, too, devoid of anything untidy. But his eyes watched her with keen interest and concern.
‘Were you able to rouse Dame Joanna?’
‘No. She is in a faint after losing much blood.’
The abbot sat with his cup of wine untasted, his hands folded in front of him on the table, his eyes focused on his hands, perhaps to give Lucie privacy in eating.
She sipped her wine, trying to erase the memory of the blood’s scent. The wine revived her. She must take care to stop before it dizzied her. Magda had told her that one of the greatest dangers in pregnancy was falling, not just because she might injure the babe in her womb but the midwife had observed that women’s joints seemed more easily overstretched and strained when they were with child, perhaps readying the body for birth. Lucie sighed. Her every move was restricted by an ever growing set of rules and cautions — not as onerous as those at St Clement’s, but frustrating all the same. Was that what Joanna had run from? Rules? Eyes following her every movement? She had run to her brother. Did he seem to enjoy more freedom?
Of course he did. Owen certainly did.
Lucie sighed, took a piece of bread, nibbled at it. Warm and flavourful. It stirred her appetite. She must eat, must put the nauseous sight of Joanna’s wounds out of her mind.
‘You are not hungry?’
Lucie was startled by the abbot’s soft voice. She found him regarding her thoughtfully.
‘What I just saw. . It is difficult to put the scene from my mind.’
Campian nodded. ‘God help her find the peace she seeks in a less sinful way.’ He shook his head. ‘My stomach liked neither the odour nor the sight. For you it must be far worse. I am in your debt for coming. Your husband would not be pleased with me.’
‘He would understand.’
‘I do not think Captain Archer understands anything untoward where you are concerned, Mistress Wilton.’ Campian smiled. A peculiar smile, causing no wrinkles, expressed only on the mouth and in the eyes.
Lucie thought it would be difficult to like Campian, but she knew that he and Wulfstan were old friends.
‘Will she live, do you think?’ he asked.
‘If we can keep her from injuring herself. I wish I knew what she runs from. I would like to help her.’
‘What do you see in her that makes you wish to help her?’
Lucie considered the question. ‘In truth, I cannot say. Except that she is a fellow sinner, suffering something so horrible she wished to end her life. I have felt despair like that. I have come to wish for death at times. But I have never acted on it. How much more must she suffer not only to conceive the act, but to try to carry it out until she fainted from loss of blood.’
‘You think that is what stopped her? The loss of blood?’
Lucie nodded. ‘That and exhaustion from the terrible strength she called up to inflict those wounds.’
‘Is it possible they were not self-inflicted?’
Lucie shook her head. ‘I think not.’
‘How can you know?’
‘I said I think not. I do not know it is not so. I do not have the skill. But having spoken with Joanna, having seen some way into her heart, I can believe she did this to herself.’ Lucie lifted her cup of wine in trembling hands.
‘I am sorry I asked such questions.’
‘You have a right. She lies in your guest house.’
Lucie gazed round the small, comfortable room. On the far wall was a fresco of a Benedictine monk kneeling before a woman in a deep blue mantle, kissing her outstretched hand. Presumably the Blessed Virgin Mary, to whom the abbey was dedicated. The painting was simple, almost childlike, but for Mary’s eyes, which somehow expressed an immense sympathy and kindness.
Campian noticed where Lucie’s eyes lingered. ‘A clumsy painting, but I have grown fond of it.’
‘The Virgin’s eyes. Were they painted at the same time as the rest of the fresco?’
Campian looked surprised. ‘So you notice it, too? How Brother Peter’s gift blossomed when he reached her eyes?’
‘It is as if the rest of the fresco were merely a background, an explanation of the expression in her eyes.’
Abbot and apothecary looked at one another with fresh appreciation.
‘Has he painted anything else?’
Campian shook his head, his eyes sad. Lucie looked, startled, at his eyes, then at those of the fresco. The expressionless face, the soul revealed only by the eyes.
‘What is it?’ the abbot asked.
‘Nothing,’ Lucie said, sipping her wine to hide her smile.
‘Jasper is coming along quickly in his studies.’
‘I look forward to the day when he is back with us,’ Lucie said. ‘I think he will be a good apprentice. He is quick and level-headed.’
‘He is fond of Captain Archer.’
‘They have spent much time together. Owen has been readying Jasper to master the longbow.’
‘Your husband possesses an odd mix of talents.’
‘Indeed he does.’ Lucie’s eyes kept returning to the blue mantle on the fresco. ‘You have of course heard of the furore over the blue mantle Joanna keeps by her?’
Campian smiled. ‘Ah yes. Rumours of miracles.’
‘Are they all — the holy relics, I mean — are they all. .’ Lucie could not say it.
The abbot nodded, understanding her unvoiced questions. ‘Are they what we claim?’
Lucie waited.
The abbot folded his hands and studied them. ‘We pray that they are, Mistress Wilton. And if they perform a miracle or two, it must be so, must it not?’ He raised his eyes to hers.
‘Do you ever doubt? I am thinking of the fuss at St Clement’s.’
Campian sighed.
‘Forgive me for that question.’
Campian’s eyes looked sad though his mouth smiled. ‘We would not preach so much of faith if we expected the faithful never to doubt, Mistress Wilton.’
A far more honest answer than Lucie had expected. ‘Thank you, Father.’
Seventeen
The house that Hugh Calverley had found so intriguing was a house like any other: wattle and daub, waxed parchment windows that would hum and thrum in a North Sea gale, a jutting second storey, a heavy oak door. The door was a wrong-headed attempt at security, for beside it were patches in the wall where intruders had found the wattle and daub easier to break through.
Harry had led Owen, Ned, and Alfred to the house the previous night. They had sent Harry back to the castle and settled in for a long watch, crouching in the shadows, alert to every sound in the street — the skitter of rats, the splash of night waste, the hesitant steps of drunks and thieves out after curfew. But no one had showed an interest in the house. No one had entered, no one had left. It had appeared deserted.
Tonight was different. Early in the evening a pale glow through a rear window had suggested occupation. When the darkness was complete and the street deserted, Owen motioned Ned to one side of the door and stationed himself on the other side. His ear to the narrow opening, Owen listened, his dagger ready. Ned leaned towards him, pointed to himself, to Owen’s shoulders, and then to the upper storey. Owen nodded. Ned took off his sword belt, handed it to Alfred, put one of his daggers in his mouth. Owen crouched down, hands on knees. Ned climbed onto his shoulders and Owen rose slowly. With his dagger, Ned poked at the waxed parchment, puncturing it, then sliced slowly, trying to be quiet. It was not a silent procedure, requiring some sawing of the waxed and weathered hide, but it was not a noise that the listener would necessarily find alarming. When Ned judged he had a sufficient opening, he tapped for Owen to lift him higher. Owen took Ned’s ankles, lifted. Ned grabbed the top of the frame, lifted his feet, and slipped them through the opening in the parchment, ripping it wider as his body followed.