The Guilt of Innocents (24 page)

‘Why, here.’ The schoolmaster lifted a leather box from a high shelf and set it down on a bench. ‘I keep my scholars’ forgotten items in here.’ He eased off the tight-fitting lid and rummaged through a collection of scarves and gloves, then looked up, perplexed. ‘It isn’t here. I am certain this is where I put it.’

Owen bit back a curse. ‘You live in the chamber behind this hall, do you not?’ he asked.

John’s face flushed as he nodded.

‘Do you spend time in here in the evening?’

‘God help us.’ Master John removed his felt hat and mopped his head with a cloth. ‘I do spend some evenings in here, when I’m preparing lessons. I know what you’re thinking, I was a fool to leave it in an unguarded schoolroom. But I can’t imagine when someone might have felt sure they would not be caught. God’s blood, this is – I can’t believe –’ His face crumpled.

‘Did anyone see you place it in the box?’

‘William Ferriby was here. We’d been discussing his brother’s stubborn insistence on keeping his school in this liberty, whether there was any way William might dissuade him. But none of the boys were here.’ He moaned. ‘I’ve been a fool. I’d brought the scrip from the Clee, thinking it would be safer here.’ He looked distraught. ‘This is terrible.’

‘I won’t deny that it worries me, Master John. Have a care when you first enter this room.’ He made certain that the schoolmaster met his eye, saw his concern. The other scholars had begun to file in. ‘I should leave you to your students.’ Walking past Jasper Owen patted him on the shoulder. As he stepped outside he heard the scholars asking Jasper whether he’d been helping the captain. It would be a good day for the lad, but not for his grammar master.

The wind almost pushed Owen into George Hempe, who awaited him outside the school.

‘I thought I’d find you here or with Archbishop Thoresby,’ Hempe said, hunching his shoulders to protect his neck from the icy wind.

‘I haven’t seen the archbishop yet.’ He weighed Thoresby’s anger at a delay in reporting to him against having more news for him, and decided that he might at least speak with the goldsmith. He needed to see William and Nicholas Ferriby as well, but he first wanted to consider how to approach them. ‘Before I talk to His Grace I would see Edward Munkton. Would you care to join me?’

‘I don’t know what use I would be to you,’ said Hempe. ‘I’ve been unable to connect the goldsmith’s journeyman with the bargeman.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve taken the time out of your responsibilities to continue to work on this.’

‘I cannot seem to let it go.’ Hempe gave an embarrassed laugh.

As they walked towards Petergate Hempe told Owen what he’d learned about Nigel.

‘You’re a good friend,’ Owen said. ‘I thank you.’ He told Hempe about the cross. ‘I believe the cross is how Nigel became involved with whatever is driving the murders.’

They were turning towards Stonegate when Hempe asked, ‘Why do you think Ysenda de Weston had kept the cross?’

Owen wished he knew. ‘Whatever her reason it was not so simple as a woman coveting a piece of gold jewellery, I’m certain of that. And now that the scrip the lad had carried it in is missing, I’m worried that there was more in it.’

‘Or the scrip itself was worth something?’

‘I wondered that, but I doubt it. As I recall it was good leather, not the best, with a brass clasp fashioned like a buckle. I cannot think that worth sneaking into St Peter’s School to steal.’

‘Nay.’ Hempe tucked in his chin and braced against the wind whistling down Stonegate.

Edward Munkton looked dismayed by yet another visit from Hempe, but was more civil to Owen, no doubt because he’d bought a mazer, a beautiful wooden drinking cup decorated with delicate gold filigree, from the goldsmith a few months earlier. He’d wanted something special to present to Lucie when she was brought to bed with the child. The visit was well worth it, for Munkton jerked to attention as soon as Owen described the cross.

‘Nigel, may he rest in peace, asked about such pendants a few days ago. He wondered about their worth and who made them. I sent him across to Robert Dale. He makes such pieces.’

That was good news to Owen, for Robert Dale was a friend.

‘Have you presented your wife with the mazer yet?’ Munkton asked.

‘No. I’ve avoided temptation by hiding it.’ He’d taken it to Brother Michaelo for safekeeping, knowing that he would be able to retrieve it at once – there was not a better organised man in all York, in Owen’s opinion.

‘Admirable constraint, Captain,’ said Munkton with a conspiratorial wink as Owen and Hempe left the shop.

Across Stonegate, a servant showed them in to Robert Dale’s workshop to stay warm while he fetched his master. Several of the journeymen were working on a large piece and their hammering was deafening. The goldsmith soon joined them and, making a show of covering his ears and wincing, led them outside and up to his hall.

Swearing him to secrecy, Owen told Robert about the Gamyll cross. The goldsmith sat with his head down, nodding to indicate his attention, but he perked up at the name.

‘The Gamyll cross, did you say? Sir Baldwin Gamyll of Weston?’

‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘did you make it for him?’

Robert trained his myopic gaze on Owen as he
slowly nodded. ‘I did. And you are not the only one who has asked about it of late. Disturbing.’

‘Who else has mentioned it?’ asked Hempe.

‘Father Nicholas – the merchant Peter Ferriby’s brother – was inquiring about what quality of chalice he might purchase with money left to his church in Weston and mentioned in passing a birthing cross in his parish. I was curious about it, and he said it had been a gift to the late Lady Gamyll from Sir Baldwin. Is this the same cross?’

‘It is,’ said Owen. ‘Did he say anything else about it?’

Robert puckered up his face, thinking. ‘Oh yes. He asked how many such crosses he might purchase with the money, and then laughed. But then he asked again. I told him quite a few, that a chalice requires far more gold. He did not press me further.’

‘Master Edward said he’d sent his journeyman, Nigel, here when he’d asked about small gold crosses. Did he talk to you?’

‘He sent him here? That horrible man? God grant him peace, but he would not have been welcome in this house.’ Robert frowned. ‘He might have spoken to someone in the shop. Shall I inquire for you?’

Owen and Hempe were offered watered wine by a maid while they waited for the goldsmith to return.

‘Nicholas Ferriby,’ Hempe said, staring into his cup. ‘Now why would he have that cross on his mind?’

‘Perhaps he thought it lost and wondered whether he might replace it,’ said Owen. But he was bothered by Nicholas’s interest as well. He’d been in York the night Drogo died. Was there something to that, he wondered, something he wasn’t seeing? Then there was the missing scrip. Might Nicholas’s brother have mentioned seeing it at St Peter’s School?

Robert returned with an apprentice about Jasper’s age in tow, who hesitated just inside the doorway.

Robert gave him a little push. ‘Do not be afraid, Michael, you are not in trouble. In fact, this might earn you the day off you have asked for.’

The boy’s face lit up with that, and he quickly settled down on a stool by the fire. Owen noticed gold glitter on Michael’s simple hat.

‘Tell them about Nigel,’ Robert said.

‘We were standing in St Peter’s after Mass on Sunday last,’ said Michael, ‘and he asked me if we made gold crosses for ladies to wear as pendants round their necks. I told him we did, and some bore pretty sayings, or prayers – short ones.’ He looked to his master for approval, which he received as a smile and a nod.

‘Did he want to purchase one?’ Owen asked.

‘A journeyman?’ Michael laughed. ‘He asked if Sir Baldwin Gamyll had ever been in the shop, and I said yes, we had just made a delicate gold circlet for his new lady to secure her veil.’

‘Anything else?’ Owen coaxed.

‘He wondered whether Sir Baldwin and Master Robert spoke as if friends. I said as much as a merchant and a lord might be friendly, they were. After all, Master Robert knew that the circlet was for Sir Baldwin’s second wife, so he knew something of the family.’ Michael winced as he glanced at his master.

Robert nodded his approval and thanked him.

That was enough for Owen. Nigel had been asking about the Gamyll cross, there was no doubt of that.

Owen and Hempe were quiet as they walked out into Stonegate.

‘I’ll see His Grace now,’ said Owen. ‘We’ve matters to discuss.’

‘I’ll be at the York Tavern if you have need of me,’ said Hempe. He began to walk away, but paused and turned back to Owen. ‘They might have worked together, Drogo and Nigel. Stealing and selling downriver.’

That had crossed Owen’s mind. ‘But who caught them then?’

Hempe shrugged and continued on his way.

Owen almost changed his mind about seeing Thoresby before the Ferriby brothers, but he’d already delayed long enough that the archbishop would be in a fine fury.

B
rother Michaelo met Owen in the archbishop’s hall. ‘His Grace expected to see you earlier.’ His elegantly sculpted face was set in an expression of mild irritation.

Owen bowed slightly to the archbishop’s secretary. They had known one another a long while, and were friends in their ways, but Michaelo’s loyalty was to the archbishop, not Owen. When Thoresby was irritated with Owen, so was Michaelo. ‘I’ve more to tell His Grace now than I had earlier. I pray he will be glad of that.’

‘Will Emma Ferriby be pleased with your findings?’ Michaelo asked.

‘Is she here?’

‘No. But you know that His Grace wishes above all to lift the pall of suspicion from her brother-in-law, Master Nicholas.’

Owen might have known more had he not
followed his conscience to call on His Grace before calling on William and Nicholas. Frustrated and irritated with himself, Owen snapped, ‘I would see His Grace, Michaelo.’ His words echoed in the hall, despite the tapestries and cushions on the elegant seats.

Michaelo smirked as only he could do. Bowing, he said, ‘If you will follow me, I shall announce you.’

Thoresby was pacing in his parlour when Michaelo opened the door. That did not bode well for Owen, but he’d weathered worse. At least his family had nothing to do with the matter at hand, so there was nothing with which Thoresby might threaten him.

‘Your Grace,’ Owen said, bowing.

‘You have kept me waiting half the day, Archer,’ Thoresby said, still prowling about the room arrayed in his archbishop’s robes. Owen wondered what official appearance had required them.

‘I was working for you, Your Grace. I have much to tell you. But if you’ve more important matters to see to, I could return.’

‘Is Nicholas Ferriby innocent?’ Thoresby lifted a document from a shelf and tapped his other hand with it for a few beats, then put it back. The archbishop had a gift for thrusting to the heart of the matter.

‘I cannot say for certain as yet.’ Owen wished he would sit down. This prowling was so uncharacteristic
of late that he did not know how to interpret it. It felt like dark, anxious energy.

Thoresby paused with his back to Owen, bowing his head for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, his archbishop’s ring catching the light from the brazier. They were old hands now. The archbishop had aged greatly in the nine years that Owen had known him.

‘Shall we sit, Your Grace?’

‘Emma Ferriby has suffered much of late. You are aware of that, I know, her father’s death, her mother’s feud with the Bishop of Winchester.’

‘That all happened a year ago, Your Grace. Since then life has been calm in her household, and with her mother.’

Thoresby grunted. ‘I met in the chapter house today with the dean and chancellor. They now suggest that the rumours surrounding Master Nicholas are proof that he is unsuited to take charge of young scholars. Canon William was also present.’ Thoresby perched on his chair, hands on knees, and shook his head at the brazier. ‘You would say the same?’

Owen relaxed his self-recrimination about not going to William at once upon learning he’d witnessed the storing of the now-missing scrip, as he’d perhaps been spared having the dean, chancellor and archbishop present when he spoke to him. ‘What had William to say?’

‘He mentioned that a large landholder in Nicholas’s parish had asked him why his brother
deemed it necessary to set up his school in the minster liberty. William wondered whether the man was concerned about the character of his parish priest.’

‘What was his opinion about his brother’s motives and his character?’

Thoresby shook his head. ‘He merely reported the visit, no more. He was otherwise present merely as a courtesy, I believe.’

‘Did he name the landholder?’

Thoresby sighed, signalling impatience. ‘No. I told you all he said.’

Owen bit back a frustrated curse. ‘I wish you had asked. I would like to know if it was Sir Baldwin or Osmund Gamyll.’

‘Are you criticising me, Archer? Have a care.’ Thoresby emphasised the warning with a brief pause. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he said, ‘It would be wise to talk to William Ferriby in any case.’