The Cross Legged Knight (21 page)

The stair landing was dark. She felt her way down and was crossing the hall to the kitchen door when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The door that led to the street stood ajar. No one in the household used that door at night. The privy was in the other direction, out behind the kitchen. Remembering the prowler frightened away from the Dales’, Lucie held her breath, pressing her hands to her heart to muffle its pounding. She could hear no one in the hall, but if anyone was within they would be able to see her most clearly, for the moonlight spilling in from the doorway picked out her pale linen shift as if beatifying her. But now, from beyond the open door, she heard gravel crunching in an uneven rhythm, and a softer susurrus. Staying low, she crept towards the open door, pressed herself against the wall beside it, then peered out. A woman in a dark gown paced back and forth on the path to the street, limping a little and speaking in a soft voice. It was Phillippa, sleepwalking.

Lucie crept out through the door, moving into the shadows beneath the eaves while she waited for her heart to quiet.

‘… riding at night. So dark. He has fallen from his horse. He is lying somewhere, bones broken. I must send Adam to search for him.’

Lucie stepped on to the path and called her aunt’s
name softly, then took her arm and led her into the house.

Thoresby lay in bed listening to floorboards creak, shutters rattle, a door slam shut somewhere in the palace. The page who slept near the door wheezed in his sleep. What an irony it was that in old age, when one’s body yearned for rest, one slept but a few hours at night. Which led to drowsiness by day, nodding off while listening to a speech, while sitting in the garden, while praying. There were sleep potions, of course. Thoresby prided himself on never having used them, but to everything there was a season. The Riverwoman must know many sleep cures. He might speak with her on the morrow.

For now he rose, slipped a simple gown over his nakedness, padded over to the small altar in his chamber, knelt on the prie-dieu, bowed his head, closed his eyes. ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven …’

The page’s snoring forced Thoresby’s prayer into an unaccustomed rhythm. Irritated, he left the prie-dieu and bent over the sleeping boy, prodding his shoulder. The lad flung out an arm in defence. Thoresby caught it. ‘Accompany me to the chapel for prayer,’ he commanded. He let go of the page’s arm, seeing him wide-eyed and struggling to sit up, and went in search of his sandals. His preference for the open shoes was just another indignity of his advanced age. Of late his feet swelled horribly by evening and his toes had begun to twist at the joints. Sandals were easy on his aching feet, though he did not wear them when anyone outside the immediate household was about.

By now the page awaited him at the door, lamp lit, a light cloak over one arm, for Thoresby’s old bones, he guessed. His increasing frailty had been noted, though
never mentioned. Down the corridor their footsteps whispered, through the hall past sleeping servants, out on to the porch, where Thoresby assured the guards all was well, through the great hall and into the screens passage.

The page stopped suddenly by the door leading to the chapel. ‘Someone has passed through here, Your Grace,’ he whispered. ‘I smell lamp oil. Shall I inspect the chapel first?’

This business made everyone edgy. ‘We have a house full of guests, including several clerics, as well as those of our household. I do not wonder that someone is there before me.’ It had been a long time since Thoresby sought out the chapel for his night prayers.

The page pushed open the chapel door. Inside, one of Wykeham’s clerics knelt before the altar. Guy – the name seemed inappropriate for a cleric, yet he seemed by far the more devout of the two, praying in the minster all last evening, the chapel tonight. Thoresby knelt down beside him. Guy glanced up, bowed his head in obeisance. Thoresby acknowledged his greeting, then, dropping his head in his hands, turned his mind to Sir Ranulf Pagnell.

The death of his old friend weighed on him with a heaviness for which he had been unprepared. He had been fond of Ranulf, had been humbled by his piety, admired his goodness. But they had often been out of touch for years at a time. Thoresby did not understand why he felt such a void. It had occurred to him that God had given him this pain for a purpose, perhaps to draw his thoughts to the example of Ranulf’s life, one well lived in God’s grace. And so his prayers for Ranulf were meditations on his friend’s goodness.

In comparison, Thoresby found his own life lacking. He had accomplished some, perhaps even much, good,
but more often than not he had been irritated by the necessity of breaking from his routine to see to others. Yet there had been a time, not long ago, when he had assisted in feeding the poor outside St Mary’s Abbey at least once a month and he believed his commissioning of a catechism in the vernacular would reach many lay souls. These days he did little more than what was necessary as archbishop. He lived quite a solitary existence. His household had once been large and noisy – knights, clerics, wards, their tutors, visiting dignitaries, retainers – which was only proper in an archbishop’s palace, and he had been full of plans for reaching out to more of the faithful. In the past few years he had interacted little even with his wards, dining with them when he was at Bishopthorpe, seeing them in his parlour when they needed permission to travel or receive guests, conferring with their families on occasion, but he left their education to their tutors, a trio he paid more than they could possibly be worth. Perhaps he should give his wards more of his attention. Wykeham had tutored Guy closely as a boy and the man had grown into a devout, efficient member of his household.

He glanced over to the balding Guy. His two short-comings were that he mumbled and that he overindulged at the table. No wonder he sweated so – even now, in the chilly chapel, the lamplight reflected off a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He would die young with such bad habits.

Alain was another matter, fastidious in person and speech, and yet lacking the solidity Thoresby sensed in his fellow clerk. Alain had not been educated in Wykeham’s household.

Thoresby’s thoughts had strayed far from his purpose, and his hands and feet were chilled beyond his
ability to ignore them. Giving up the effort, he woke his dozing page and headed back to bed.

Lucie had stoked the kitchen fire, heated water, and now sat in the warmth and light, her head bent over the steam from her tisane. Phillippa had been too distressed and disorientated to climb the stairs to her chamber, so Lucie had guided her instead to the kitchen, coaxed her into drinking a cup of wine laced with valerian, then made her comfortable on the pallet on which Poins had lain the night before. It hardly seemed possible that the woman lying there in such state had spent the afternoon stuffing the pallet with clean straw, sweeping the old rushes from the room, scrubbing stones, putting down fresh rushes and dried herbs. Firelight flickered over Phillippa’s pale, bony face. Her mouth was pressed tight, her brows drawn down in unhappy thought, even in sleep. She had confided to Lucie how much her spells frightened her – and how humbling they were. They had struck her less often of late and Lucie had hoped that perhaps she was free of them, though she had not believed, as Phillippa did, that it was Cisotta’s charm against elf-shot that had driven away the confusion. She wished the charm had worked. To suffer such confounding of one’s wits in old age seemed a cruel ending.

Phillippa was given little reward for her unwavering faith in God. Magda was not so afflicted, despite her refusal to step foot in a church. But at least Phillippa had been blessed with a longer life than Cisotta.

Dear Cisotta, God grant you peace
.

Lucie had tried all day to push away the image of the cold, hard buckle pressing into Cisotta’s throat. But such horrors gained strength in the middle of the night. She imagined the man seizing Cisotta – had he come
from behind? He dropped the belt over Cisotta’s fair head. She reached up, opening her mouth to scream, but he pulled the belt tight. She clutched at the air, at her throat, slipping down all the while. Now the man’s face was exposed – it was Poins.

If he is guilty may his pain torment him this night
.

But if it was not him – no, Lucie was certain. That was why God had so punished him.

Lucie’s hands were shaking, her heart racing. Her stomach ached and where the discovery of her flux had given her joy only a while ago, now she feared it for the disappointment it would bring. For surely, surely she grew too old to conceive and bear a child through all the long months. It would have been better had her flux not returned, better not to hope again. She set the cup aside, still half full, and dropped to her knees.
Heavenly Mother, Holy Mother of God, show me what to do, help me banish this despair, quiet my devil
. She buried her head in her arms and wept.

Something brushed past her elbow, and again. A cold nose nuzzled her hand, a rough tongue licked it. Lucie sat back on her heels and Melisende climbed on to her lap, butted her head against Lucie’s chin. Gathering the skinny elderly cat in one arm, Lucie eased up and settled back in to the chair by the fire, Melisende on her lap. At first the cat stiffened, but as Lucie petted her she relaxed, finally settling down, her chin resting lightly on one of Lucie’s forearms, a warm, purring comfort. She was just a wisp of a cat now. Lucie had not been aware of how Melisende was fading.

In the morning, Lucie was puzzled to awaken to Kate’s gentle prodding. ‘The captain is out in the hall, Mistress, breaking his fast with Gwenllian and Hugh.’

Lucie lay alone on the pallet before the fire. Some
time in the night she had slipped beneath the blanket next to her aunt. ‘Where is Dame Phillippa?’

‘She is in the hall, too, but she will not eat. She is confused today and does not know me.’

More was coming back to Lucie now – she feared she had added too much valerian to her tisane last night, so slowly was she waking. ‘Cisotta’s funeral. Am I too late?’

‘No, Mistress. I woke you in time to help ready Mistress Cisotta’s children, as you wished.’

‘How will you manage with my aunt unable to help you? Perhaps I should not go. Someone must see to the chores while you watch the children. Jasper will be busy in the shop.’

‘You have nothing to worry about, Mistress. Alisoun Ffulford is here. The Riverwoman sent her, just as she promised, though I had not expected her so soon. She says she has much experience minding children.’

‘Alisoun – I had not thought of her.’ The girl had taken care of several sets of young cousins since she lost her family in the last visitation of the plague, even though she was young – a year younger than Jasper. ‘I do not recall Magda offering to send for Alisoun.’

‘She told me as she departed yesterday. She said Dame Phillippa was due for a troublous time, and you and the captain would be too busy to help with her. I forgot to tell you last night, but I thought it would be days before she came. I can comb your hair when you are dressed, Mistress.’

‘So you can.’

Magda had said nothing of being able to predict Phillippa’s spells.

Kate gave Lucie a hand up from the low bed. ‘Already Alisoun has Gwenllian and Hugh in hand.’

‘From what I remember she was as wilful as my
Gwen – perhaps my daughter has met her match.’

Kate handed Lucie her shift. ‘I put your clothes by the fire so they would be warm.’

Seeing the dark-blue gown, Lucie remembered the missing buttons, how calm and content Phillippa had looked as she sewed by the window last night.

‘Dame Phillippa sews buttons so neatly,’ Kate said, kneeling to help Lucie with all the fastening. ‘I did not think old folk could see well enough to do such work.’ She laced one of Lucie’s sleeves to the shoulder of her gown.

When Lucie was dressed, she slipped out to the privy. The dew was heavy on the grass, the sky striped by fast-moving clouds. A penetrating breeze set her shivering. By the time she returned to the hall the chill had cleared her head.

At the table set near the garden windows Owen sat beside Phillippa, one hand cupped beneath and one over her folded hands, talking to her in a comforting tone. The elderly woman, with her better ear cocked towards him, wore the ghost of a smile.
Bless him for his kind patience
. As if he had heard her prayer, Owen glanced up and wished her a good morning.

‘Who is she?’ Phillippa demanded. ‘Was she invited?’

In the far corner beneath the windows Alisoun held Hugh on her lap and Gwenllian sat beside her. Alisoun was singing in a high, clear voice while nodding to the children to clap as she did to the rhythm. Gwenllian held her hands stiffly up towards her face as she focused on Alisoun’s hands, struggling to catch the beat while stumbling over the words as she tried to sing along. Hugh seemed more interested in Alisoun’s hands than his own, giggling and squirming.

How the girl had grown since Lucie last saw her. She had been a sullen, skinny child with wild hair and ill-fitting
clothes. But there she sat with her hair tamed by a crisp white cap, the bodice of her gown fitted to her slender frame, the skirt draping well and the hem tidy.

‘Good-day to you, Alisoun,’ Lucie said.

Gwenllian jumped from her bench and ran to Lucie, hugging her legs. ‘I was singing.’

‘I heard you.’

‘God be with you, Mistress Wilton.’

Alisoun’s eyes were as Lucie remembered, dark and wary, and the chin defiant. But she moved with Hugh’s squirms, gently containing him.