Edmund closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘She’s probably bedded more lovers than you ever will and is riddled with disease.’
Alfred just laughed. ‘You are jealous that she smiles at me, not you.’
Edmund gave him a disgusted look. ‘You haven’t a brain in your head.’
The taverner’s daughter put Owen in mind of Bess Merchet. ‘You might find her harder to bed than you think,’ he warned Alfred. ‘A woman with such a backbone does not fall into the arms of the first man who flirts with her.’
Alfred shrugged. ‘I can but try.’ He rose.
Owen grabbed his hand. ‘We must rise early, ride in to Beverley. I do not want to dawdle on the road because you had little sleep and cannot sit your horse in a gallop.’ Nor would he be of any use if they must turn and fight.
For a moment, Alfred’s face changed, hardened, his eyes narrowed, his colour rose. He moved his eyes slowly to Owen’s hand on his. ‘I never liked you much. ’Twas Colin worshipped you.’
Owen squeezed the hand harder and gave Alfred a look that warned he was not amused. ‘I am not asking you to like me. But you are mine to command on this journey. We have business in Beverley and York. And Edmund to keep an eye on. You shall leave off the lovemaking until we finish our business. Then be damned if you will.’
Alfred backed off, not liking the look in Owen’s eyes. ‘I was just having some fun. Meant nothing by it.’
Owen let go of Alfred’s hand. A hush had spread round them as folk eyed the two men with curiosity and apprehension. ‘We are calling unwanted attention to ourselves,’ Owen said softly. He picked up Alfred’s tankard, shook it, and said loudly, ‘Empty? Is that all you’re bellyaching about?’
Alfred lifted his hand and balled it into a fist, turned suddenly to the room at large and belched. He grinned, relaxed his hand. ‘Better now.’ And sat down, banging his fist on the table. ‘So I’ll have another, now you’ve asked.’
Edmund shook his head. ‘You’re a pig.’
‘But not an ass. I know an eye that threatens bloody murder when I see it.’ Once Alfred had drunk down his ale, he went stumbling off to bed.
Edmund soon followed. Owen stayed below until he had made a thorough study of each face in the room. He would remember them if they turned up again on his journey.
For all their growing unease, they arrived without incident in Beverley at dusk the following day, pushing their way against an opposing force of folk leaving town after the Corpus Christi pageants, picking their way through the guild members disassembling the pageant wagons. By the time they reached Ravenser’s house, they wanted only something to drink and then bed. Ravenser recognised their condition and showed them to a bedchamber. The provost held Owen back while Alfred and Edmund went in.
‘The stocky one. You did not set out from York with him.’
‘No. He is one of Captain Sebastian’s men. Come along to help us question Joanna.’
Ravenser’s eyebrow went up, just as his uncle’s would have. ‘Unbound?’
‘We have come to an agreement,’ Owen said.
Ravenser gave him a look that clearly said he thought him a fool. ‘I must hear about this. But first, let me give you this letter and leave you alone to read it.’ Ravenser drew from somewhere in his fine houppelande a sealed letter. The Wilton’s seal, now Lucie’s, with a mortar and pestle. ‘I received one as well,’ Ravenser said.
Owen went back down to the hall with an oil lamp and read of Joanna’s self-mutilation. Lucie asked whether Owen thought Joanna’s attack on herself might have been her response to her mother’s death. Owen tucked that idea in the back of his mind and read on: Lucie grew larger and clumsy, Sir Robert was proving a patient, helpful gardener, Jasper was to come stay for the eve and day of Corpus Christi; and Lucie had adopted a stray kitten, an orange tabby, whom Melisende disliked. Owen groaned. Melisende was intrusive enough in their small house. Why was Lucie adopting another cat? She wrote that she hoped Owen would take time to see Beverley Minster, which was said to be almost as beautiful as York Minster. By now she trusted he would desire a peaceful place where he might think. Owen smiled. She was right. And her concern was a comfort; a man could feel so alone. Lucie closed with the unexpected request that Owen check the grave in Beverley once more. ‘ “No one should suffer the grave before Death’s sleep”. . it is very important, my love.’
Ravenser joined Owen. ‘You have read about Dame Joanna?’
Owen nodded. ‘Bad luck she has been unable to speak.’
‘The woman is dangerous. My uncle sees no difficulty in returning her to St Clement’s once we know all is safe, but I do not agree.’
‘His Grace is in York now?’
Ravenser shook his head. ‘At Windsor or Sheen on the King’s business, but he hopes to return shortly after you arrive. What do you think about the nun’s obsession with someone being buried alive?’
‘Lucie wrote of that to you?’ What had possessed her? Owen hid his anger with a shrug.
‘Jaro could not have been alive when they buried him.’
Ravenser frowned at the memory of the corpse. ‘I agree. I cannot see how one’s neck could be broken in the grave. So it is Dame Joanna’s own burial that haunts her?’
‘According to Edmund, she was not long in the ground. A few shovelfuls of earth over her. Can a momentary experience leave such a scar?’
‘Edmund told you this? The man who sleeps upstairs?’
‘He took part in the ruse.’ Owen rubbed his eyes, weary from days of journeying with the tension of Edmund’s spectral pursuers. ‘I have much to tell you. But Joanna’s obsession with someone buried alive — perhaps it should make me more uneasy, Sir Richard. How thoroughly did you examine Jaro?’
‘We opened the grave, cut open his shroud, noted the broken neck.’ Ravenser tilted his head to one side, leaned back in his chair. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That I should take a look at that grave. And speak to the gravedigger.’
‘You doubt our thoroughness?’
‘They tell me Jaro was huge. Fat. Much could be hidden with such a corpse.’
Ravenser pressed the bridge of his nose. ‘I confess my own doubts on the matter.’ He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. ‘I shall attend you. When do you wish to proceed?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Ravenser whispered to himself. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. ‘I ask you to wait one more day, until the Corpus Christi revellers are safely gone. It is so crowded in the city at present that nothing can be accomplished without an audience.’
Owen agreed. ‘Tomorrow I shall speak with the gravedigger and the priest who buried Joanna.’
Ravenser nodded. ‘I shall arrange for them to come here.’
Owen tucked Lucie’s letter in his belt, slapped the arms of his chair and rose, stretching.
Ravenser smiled. ‘You are not comfortable sitting in a chair for long, are you?’
‘True enough. Years of campaigning. Gets the body out of the habit.’
‘I look forward to hearing about Scarborough in the morning.’
Alfred and Edmund were up long before Owen. He slept like the dead, finally waking when a servant came in with a cup of spiced wine and Ravenser’s request that Owen join him as soon as possible in his parlour. He would find bread and more wine in there.
The parlour walls, hung with embroidered panels in vibrant colours, caught Owen’s attention. No stories were depicted, rather the panels looked like the edges in illustrated manuscripts, particularly one, on which animals formed an alphabet. Owen had long ago given up any effort to be inconspicuous when he examined a room, his single eye making it necessary to turn his head this way and that like a bird.
Ravenser stood by the window, the shutter opened to let in a lovely breeze, and smiled at Owen’s study. ‘You like them?’
Owen sat down, pulled apart a small loaf of pandemain, took a bite and washed it down with wine. He sighed and settled back. ‘I do, but with reservation, Sir Richard. They draw me in, invite me to turn myself on my head to see all the fine features.’