The Nun's Tale (20 page)

Owen and Louth stopped at an inn near the market square. As the innkeeper filled their tankards, they asked him to point them towards Matthew Calverley’s house.

‘Edge of the city . . . gardens and parkland surrounding it – for Mistress Calverley, who was highborn.’

Owen caught the word ‘was’. ‘Mistress Calverley is dead?’

The innkeeper nodded. ‘Aye. Drowned, she did.’ He tilted his head and squinted at Owen. ‘Queer your not knowing the story when you’ve business with the family. Are you gaming with me?’

‘We are not acquaintances,’ Owen explained, ‘just messengers from the Lord Chancellor.’

The innkeeper’s eyes widened. ‘You’re King’s men, are you? Well, well, well. So Matthew’s got business with the King?’

‘His chancellor.’

The innkeeper rubbed his ear, then snapped his fingers at them. ‘Law troubles, eh? Well, can’t say as I’m surprised.’

‘You might sit with us and tell us Mistress Calverley’s sad tale.’ Owen pushed his tankard towards the innkeeper. ‘Fill one for yourself.’

The innkeeper poured, sat down. ‘Trot’s the name. Trot the Taverner, my good gentlemen.’ He took a long drink, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shook his head. ‘Poor Matthew. Thought he’d get noble blood in his line and wound up with a family ill fit for the world.’

‘Truly?’

‘Aye. Mistress Anne Calverley was a comely lady, fiery hair and fiery temper. Once Matthew had set his eyes on her, there could be no other woman for him. She was the third daughter, so her family did not mind her marrying money instead of blood – Matthew had already made his fortune, though there were those who wondered how, with the King restricting the wool shipments across the Channel.’ Trot shrugged. ‘And quickly came two sons and three daughters.’

Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for a talkative innkeeper. ‘Is Calverley’s eldest son a merchant?’

‘Oh, aye, young Frank. Plump and prosperous like his father. T’other son – Hugh – was a bad lot. Built like a warhorse. Fought like a wild dog. Went off to seek his fortune.’ Trot nodded. ‘Eldest daughter – Edith – cherry-cheeked and docile, married another merchant in this fair city, Harrison. Middle daughter – Joanna – was to marry a merchant from Hull, but she fled to the convent. Pity. Took after her mother – ruled by her temper, but a feast for the eyes. Her brother Hugh was her champion. Youngest daughter . . . Sarasina. Funny name. Mistress Calverley was already acting queer, you see.’

‘How long ago did the mistress drown?’ Owen asked.

Trot screwed up his face, thinking. ‘Before Christmas.’ He sighed. ‘Pity. Even after birthing eight children, five yet living, Mistress Calverley was still a beauty.’

‘Was her drowning an accident?’

Trot drained his tankard. ‘I’ll repeat nothing I don’t know as truth. All I know is she drowned in the river. How it happened, that I could not be saying.’

An impressive house: an old hall with a new wing of stone, glazed windows. It stood in a meadow that rolled down to a line of trees through which the River Aire glinted. The day had warmed and the sun was strong. A burly man in a wide-brimmed hat put down his hoe and came from the kitchen garden to greet them. He wore a simple chemise, slit front and back, with the tails tucked up in his belt for easy movement in his work. His garments were earth-stained.

Owen let Louth step forward, a more presentable stranger with his unlined face and guileless smile. ‘God speed. I am Nicholas de Louth, a canon of Beverley. Would your master be at home?’

The gardener’s little pig eyes swept past Louth in his finery and narrowed at the sight of Owen, whose patch always made folks uneasy. ‘What’s a canon of Beverley want with Master Calverley?’

‘It would be best to keep it between us and Master Calverley,’ Owen said.

‘ “Us”, eh? And who are you?’

Impudent gardener. But Owen needed his good opinion. ‘I am Owen Archer, former Captain of Archers for the Duke of Lancaster, now a representative of John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.’

The pig eyes lit up. ‘Two Church men?’

Owen winced at that. ‘I am not a Church man.’

The gardener shrugged. ‘As you will.’

‘We would speak with Master Calverley,’ Louth said.

The gardener grinned and stepped back with a little bow. ‘And so you are.’

‘You?’ It was not just his gardening attire that surprised Owen – Trot’s story had led him to expect a man deep in mourning. Matthew Calverley seemed quite cheerful.

Matthew chuckled. ‘I have handed most of my business over to my son for the summer. Let him sink or swim in the best tradition of ordeals. I must know at some point whether he is fit to take it over completely, mustn’t I? And while he’s flailing round in the pond of commerce, I am enjoying my garden.’

Owen found the watery images disturbing from a man whose wife had drowned, but he put on a smile. ‘My wife is always happiest when she can spend some part of her day at work in the garden.’

Matthew looked Owen up and down. ‘Married, are you? I wouldn’t have thought.’ He shrugged. ‘So, men, what does the Church want with Matthew Calverley?’

‘We hoped you might tell us a little about your daughter, Joanna,’ Owen said.

Matthew’s expression grew pensive. ‘Ah. The poor little chit. Is she in good health?’

Louth shrugged. ‘Dame Joanna is recovering at St Mary’s Abbey from a long journey in unfavourable circumstances. The flesh improves each day; but the spirit – that is why we are here. We hope that if we learn more about her we shall be better able to help her recover.’

Matthew glanced from one to the other with a puzzled frown. ‘A long journey? She took her vows at Clementhorpe Priory, last I heard. How’s she been on a long journey?’

‘She ran away,’ Owen said.

Matthew dropped his eyes, made an odd sound in the back of his throat, grabbed his hat off his head, and fanned his red face. ‘Dear me, she bolted, eh? Oh dear.’ He sighed, looked up at Owen. ‘Can’t say as I’m surprised. Never did understand what turned that hot little filly into a nun – except Jason Miller’s bald pate and hairy moles.’ Matthew threw back his head and laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, not sincere. He quickly grew serious and invited them inside. ‘Sounds to me like a story that requires fortifying. Come within. Welcome to Calvary House, as Joanna’s mother used to call it.’

A serving girl hurried off to bring refreshments as Matthew showed them through a high-ceilinged great hall into a smaller room with a lancet window looking out towards the garden Matthew had been tending. A writing table sat by the window to catch the southern light, a basket of scrolls beside it on the plank floor. A brazier behind the writing chair would warm the room in most weather, though the air coming in the room today was mild and welcome. Matthew looked round, realised he had seating only for two, and hurried away with apologies to get a third.

Louth took the chair by the writing table, turning it to face into the room. He sat down. ‘He’s full of smiles for a widower.’

Owen walked over to the window to look at the garden. ‘Perhaps Calverley’s cheerfulness is a mask to cover his true feelings. People –’ He stopped as footsteps approached.

A procession entered the room. One man deposited a small table near the window, a second set a tray of bottles and cups on the table and the woman who had greeted them at the door set down a tray of bread, cheese, and apples. A third man lugged in an ornately carved chair, placing it to complete a triangle with the other chairs in the room. Matthew Calverley entered last with a small stool the right height for a footrest.

After the servants had departed, Matthew settled himself in the ornate chair, propping his feet on the footrest. When he had adjusted the two items to his satisfaction, he rose and poured himself a mazer of ale from a pitcher. ‘Come, help yourselves, gentlemen. Ale, wine, mead. Whatever is your pleasure.’ He had changed into an elegantly patterned gown and matching shoes with pointed toes.

Owen poured himself a cup of ale, tasted it and held the cup up to toast his host. ‘A fine brew. Second only to Tom Merchet’s at the York Tavern.’

Matthew nodded, busy settling back in his chair. Louth rose and poured himself some wine, tasted it, smiled at the cup. He, too, evidently surprised by the quality.

But then it was a substantial house, well situated, large, with adequate servants. Not as modern a house as another wool merchant’s Owen had visited in the past year, but quite impressive. The only thing truly surprising was the mood of the household. It did not feel like a house in mourning.

Perhaps the innkeeper had been having fun with them, feeding them a pack of lies.

‘It might be advisable to include Mistress Calverley in this discussion,’ Owen suggested.

‘Mistress? The mistress of this house is but a child, gentlemen.’ He laughed at their confusion. ‘My daughter, Sarasina, is mistress now.’

‘Your wife is dead, Master Calverley?’

‘Dead?’ The pig eyes moved up to the ceiling, rested there, moving side to side. ‘Well, I cannot say for certain, Master Archer. But she has been gone some time.’ He lowered his gaze to Owen’s single eye. ‘So what has Joanna done to warrant your interest?’

Hiding his confusion as best he could, Owen said, ‘Your daughter ran away from the convent just before midsummer last year. Took a relic from the convent to buy help in her disappearance.’

Matthew shook his head. ‘She was ever difficult, was Joanna. But to steal a relic . . .’ He took a long drink. ‘And what happened? They caught her at it?’ He shook his head. ‘But no, not a year ago. You would not be here telling me . . .’

‘She arranged for a false funeral, then disappeared for almost a year.’ Owen watched Matthew’s expressive face, saw there a mixture of admiration and distress.

‘I suppose Anne was informed and neglected to tell me.’ Matthew suddenly stiffened, his eyes troubled. ‘If the Reverend Mother sent a messenger I did not see – Could that be what happened? Anne feared she had some part in Joanna’s death?’

Louth shook his head. ‘The Reverend Mother said she did not inform your family – that you had given instructions that Joanna was never to be mentioned.’

Matthew closed his eyes a moment, breathed deeply. ‘Anne’s instructions, not mine.’ He looked up at Owen. ‘I am glad it was not that. So. Then what happened?’

‘Last month Joanna suddenly appeared in Beverley, at the house of a man called Will Longford. She sought the relic, hoping to return it to St Clement’s and be accepted back herself.’

‘Will Longford?’ Matthew turned his head to the side, as if listening to an invisible person beside him.

Owen leaned forward, hopeful. ‘The man from whose house Joanna staged her funeral. Do you know the name?’

Matthew turned back to Owen, nodding slowly. ‘I believe I do. Yes. I do. And as was ever the case with Joanna, her trouble points back to Hugh.’

‘Her brother?’

Matthew dropped his head, as if deep in thought, then lifted it up with a wary look. ‘But why exactly are you here?’

‘Since your daughter’s return, Longford’s maidservant has been murdered and the corpse of Longford’s cook has been discovered in the grave dug for your daughter’s false burial. Both deaths were violent.’

Matthew looked alarmed. ‘God help us! You don’t think Joanna murdered them?’

‘No. But the fact that Joanna put such effort into getting away from the priory only to ask to be accepted back a year later is passing strange. We want to know just what her arrangement was with Longford.’

‘This Will Longford is no help?’

‘He is missing.’

Matthew crossed himself. ‘What has Joanna got into?’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘She will not talk?’

Owen shrugged. ‘Will not talk or cannot remember, it is difficult to tell.’

Matthew nodded again. ‘With Joanna that can be impossible. As with her mother.’ He was quiet a moment, then suddenly slapped his thighs, looked at each of his guests. ‘So you wish me to take Joanna back, is that it?’

The suggestion surprised Owen. ‘No. Though perhaps it will come to that.’

Matthew gave a big sigh. ‘I would rather it did not come to that, Master Archer. Not that I don’t love the girl, but it has lightened the burden of my advancing age to have those three gone. I had forgotten how quiet and sweet life could be.’

Owen and Louth exchanged a look. ‘Three, Master Calverley?’ Louth said.

‘Anne and her little demons, Joanna and Hugh. They were purely of Anne’s blood, gentlemen, as Edith and Frank are purely of mine. Sarasina –’ he shrugged ‘ – so far she has her mother’s beauty but a placid spirit. God has been merciful.’ Matthew crossed himself again.

Owen found Matthew Calverley’s reactions puzzling. He wished to slow down and study the man, but he must carry on while the man was in a good humour. ‘I know this must be painful to you, Master Calverley, but what exactly happened to Mistress Calverley?’

Matthew got up, poured more ale, held onto the little table while he gulped down a considerable amount, topped his mazer, and returned to his seat. ‘What exactly. Well, I cannot exactly say. She walked away one morning, a cold, dark day. When she had been gone too long for such cold, I went looking.’ He shrugged. ‘I never found her. She never returned.’