The Guilt of Innocents (28 page)

Glancing up from his reading Master Nicholas groaned to see Owen and George Hempe enter
the schoolroom. ‘More questions? For pity’s sake, I swear I’ve told you all I know of Drogo and his story.’ But he looked more frightened than frustrated, and the hand that closed the book trembled a little.

‘Let us withdraw to your chamber,’ said Owen. ‘I would not like someone to walk in while we are talking.’

Nicholas looked from one to the other, his neck so tensed that his head shook. ‘Why?’

‘Look at you,’ said Owen, ‘you are already upset. You do not want a student to enter and see you so.’ He walked over to the connecting door.

Nicholas rubbed his bald head as if it helped him decide what to do, then crossed over to open the door. He stood back to let them through. As he passed, Owen smelled the man’s fear. Nicholas followed them into the room with an air of dread, his usually lively arms pressed to his sides, hands clasped. He glanced around and noticed the disturbed pile of hats.

‘What is this?’ He looked at Owen with growing anger, his face darkening. ‘Have you been in here without my permission?’

‘Yes, we searched your chamber.’ Owen did not like that he’d done so. He could well imagine Nicholas’s sense of betrayal.

‘What right had you?’ the schoolmaster hissed. ‘This is outrageous.’

‘I remind you that two men have been murdered,’ said Hempe.

‘I need no reminding,’ Nicholas said to Hempe, then turning to Owen. ‘I’ve cooperated with you, Captain, and this is how you treat me?’ There was a catch in his voice.

‘I am acting on behalf of Archbishop Thoresby,’ Owen said.

Nicholas said nothing for a moment, apparently waiting for more of an explanation. When none came, he said, ‘Then I’ll speak to His Grace, not you, the captain of his guard.’

‘In good time,’ said Owen. ‘First I would ask you for the truth of how you came to have the Gamyll cross and this.’ Owen held out the scrip. ‘This is the one that Drogo the bargeman tossed to a lad on the barges the night he died, young Hubert’s scrip. You knew where Master John of St Peter’s had hidden it.’

His eyes wide with alarm Nicholas shouted, ‘Why do you persecute me? What do you want of me? I’ve never seen that before.’

‘I do not purpose to persecute you, but it’s difficult for me to believe you’ve never seen it, Master Nicholas, for I found it tucked inside your dark red hat. And this was in it.’ Owen held out the ring.

‘My hat –’ Nicholas shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘I’ve never seen that ring, either.’ He glanced over at the pile, then at Hempe, who met his gaze without blinking, then back to Owen. ‘Someone must have put the scrip there. Perhaps Chancellor Thomas had someone hide it here so
that I’d be blamed. Murder. Theft. Deceit. They’re determined to prove that I am not fit to teach the children of York, that I’m not fit to wear the cloth. They’ll have me executed for spite since the archbishop won’t agree to excommunicating me.’ Spitting out the words, his eyes wild, Nicholas Ferriby looked unfit indeed. He rubbed his head again, then his brow.

‘They do not need to go to such lengths,’ said Owen, ‘you know that. Help me prove your innocence, Master Nicholas.’

‘I’ll help you with nothing. I will speak to His Grace,’ Nicholas insisted.

‘So be it,’ said Owen. ‘We’ll escort you to his palace.’

‘God be praised,’ cried Nicholas. ‘His Grace will hear me.’

The setting sun had already disappeared in the city streets, though now and then as they walked a beam would flicker between the roofs, and in the ray of light it seemed that Owen could yet feel the sun’s warmth, but he thought it unlikely. It was a confusing time of day, the play of light and shadow, the blue sky above and the darkness below. He wondered how Nicholas must be feeling if he was truly innocent of the theft of the scrip and ring. If innocent, what overwhelmingly damning ‘evidence’ he must now discredit. Owen wished he knew to whom the ring belonged. He prayed that they might find out in time to prevent another murder.

*      *      *

Hubert must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew Aubrey was gently shaking him.

‘The sun’s going down. Your ma will be worried,’ he said.

At first Hubert went rigid with unease that his father was so close, but as he rubbed his eyes he remembered their conversation. Aubrey loved him even though he was Sir Baldwin’s bastard. He’d loved him from the moment he was born.

‘I don’t want to go back to her, Da. Can’t I stay with you?’

Sitting down on the pallet beside Hubert, Aubrey shook his head. ‘I’ll return to her soon. She is my wife, and I love her.’

‘Even when she hurts you?’

Removing the hat that covered his dark, thinning hair, Aubrey scratched his head, then replaced the cap and sighed. ‘You’re still so young, Hubert. I’m not sure how much of all this you understand. But the love between a husband and wife who chose one another is not necessarily a happy love. We need each other, and it might be because of that need that we hurt each other, when one of us isn’t paying enough attention to the other. I don’t know. God knows I’ve done what I believe is expected of a husband.’ He bowed his head. ‘What was it that you lost?’ he asked, looking up again. ‘You mentioned a cross? A piece of jewellery belonging to Sir Baldwin?’

Hubert nodded. ‘I didn’t know then. I thought it was Ma’s.’

‘I wonder – perhaps she’s frightened that he’ll accuse her of stealing it.’ Aubrey spoke so softly he seemed to be talking to himself.

‘He already knows
I
took it.’ Hubert thought this would be a good time to tell Aubrey about Osmund’s visits. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t get out the words. He didn’t want to hurt his father. Instead he scrambled to his feet and crossed to the door. With his back to his father, he thanked him for the afternoon. ‘I love you,’ he said, and was ready to hurry out.

But Aubrey joined him at the door. ‘I’ll walk with you to the top of the hill.’

In the deepening gloom Hubert was glad of the escort. The wind whipped the trees about, tossing debris in his face, forcing him to keep blinking. Even when he broke out into open sky the light was fast fading. He realised he must have slept a long while. They crossed the frozen stream and approached the hill.

Aubrey paused, sniffing. ‘Who would be daft enough to light a fire in the fields in such wind?’

Hubert paused to wipe his eyes, while, muttering and huffing, Aubrey began the ascent. As Hubert started after him he started coughing. The smoke was thicker now.

‘Christ God Almighty!’ Aubrey shouted at the top and disappeared down the hill towards home.

When Hubert reached the top of the hill he did not at once comprehend what he saw. Down below it was all smoke and flames, like a field
burning. But he should be able to see his house. As he resolved the layout in his mind he did not want to believe it and tried to figure out a different explanation. He could no longer follow his father’s progress for the smoke and flames were all that he could see. His house stood in that field. His home. He began to run down the hill.

‘Ma!’ he shrieked. ‘Ma!’

As he reached the field Hubert could see his house engulfed in flames, the high wind fanning them. The roar, hiss and crackle of the fire was terrifying, and it rose so high he felt overwhelmed, too small to have any effect on such a conflagration. But the large timbers still stood. It was not destroyed. He must save her. It was his fault. He should not have left her. The smoke choked and blinded him. Taking off his hood he covered his mouth and nose and pushed on towards the house.

‘Whoa, son, whoa.’

Hubert was picked up and carried away from the fire, then set down but held tightly with powerful arms.

‘Ma!’ he shrieked. ‘What if she’s in there?’

‘How long has it burned?’ he heard Aubrey breathlessly ask and he wanted to shake him for wasting time on such a useless question.

‘I’ve been here a while,’ said the man holding Hubert. He realised it was Sir Baldwin. ‘Where were you, Aubrey? Where’ve you been, man? My men searched for you.’

‘God in heaven, save that for later. Has anyone seen Ysenda?’ Aubrey’s voice broke.

‘No,’ said Baldwin. ‘My servants saw the flames and raised all the others they could find quickly. By the time we arrived we could do no more than soak the outbuildings. My hall is so near – I would have thought she’d flee to us. Surely Ysenda would have run for her life.’

‘I pray God that she did,’ Aubrey sobbed.

Hubert remembered his mother stumbling by the fire the previous evening. He did not know whether she would have been able to run in that state, and there had been more cider, plenty more for her to drink today. ‘If she was drinking she might not have felt the fire until it was too late,’ he cried.

Sir Baldwin mumbled something that Hubert could not understand as his son Osmund joined them.

‘I saw you and the boy running down the hill just now, Master Aubrey. God’s blood you took your time.’

Hubert almost spit at him. ‘Don’t talk to my da that way!’

‘So where were you, Hubert?’ Osmund asked with a sneer.

‘Go help with the buckets,’ Sir Baldwin snapped.

Hubert needed no one to fuel his feelings of guilt. ‘I left her. I shouldn’t have left her.’ He gathered all his strength to push against Sir Baldwin’s
arms, but made no headway. They couldn’t hold him here, it wasn’t right.
God give me the strength to break free
. The flames boiled and flared, lighting the twilight with their ghastly glow, masking all that might yet be in the house. He could not stay still. He had no right to stand there in safety. He leaned into Sir Baldwin’s arms again, but the man only tightened his grip.

‘You love her, both of you. Why aren’t you helping her?’

‘To enter that blaze would be certain death,’ said Aubrey. ‘Your mother is no fool. She will have found her way to safety.’

‘If she’d been injured,’ Osmund said, ‘she might have been trapped.’

‘Dear God, don’t let her die like this,’ Hubert shrieked.

‘Osmund, leave us,’ Sir Baldwin commanded. ‘Your father’s right, Hubert,’ he said in a far gentler tone, ‘we must have faith that Ysenda is safely sitting beside a fire nearby. There is nothing we can do about anything that was in the house.’

Hubert finally collapsed against him and wept.

Looking beyond the servant who greeted them at the palace door, Owen saw Brother Michaelo reading to Archbishop Thoresby in the glow of lamps placed around them. Despite the fire in the middle of the hall a brazier burned near them. It was a scene of comfort and camaraderie that Owen was sorry to interrupt, knowing how disappointed
Thoresby would be to hear of the strong evidence against Nicholas Ferriby.

‘If you would, ask His Grace if we might meet with him,’ Owen said to the servant. ‘I am accompanied by Master Nicholas Ferriby and the bailiff George Hempe.’

The servant bowed and crossed the room. Michaelo glanced towards the doorway and said something to the archbishop. Thoresby nodded and turned as the servant began to speak.

‘Nicholas Ferriby, eh?’ Owen could clearly hear Thoresby’s deep voice. ‘Show them in, and then bring chairs and wine.’

Once they were settled, Thoresby nodded to Owen. ‘What has happened?’

‘Your Grace, I asked them to bring me here,’ said Master Nicholas. ‘They are persecuting me.’

‘Let us speak calmly and in good order,’ said Thoresby, his deep-set eyes coolly dismissing Master Nicholas for the moment. ‘Archer?’

Reminding himself that he was not the priest’s keeper, Owen informed Thoresby of his meeting with Canon William, and then with Nicholas, the receipt of the cross, and his subsequent search of the chamber where he’d found the scrip and ring.

Thoresby leaned his head back against his high, cushioned chair, his expression pained. ‘Nicholas Ferriby,’ he said softly, ‘you are a disappointment.’

‘Your Grace,’ Nicholas cried, rising from his chair.

‘Be silent!’ Thoresby commanded. ‘Hempe, how do you come to be involved?’

Owen was curious how he would explain himself.

Hempe straightened up in his chair, placed his cup of wine on a small table beside him, and then cleared his throat. With an uncharacteristic deference he said, ‘Your Grace, I am well aware that I have overreached my duties in assisting the captain, but I could not help myself. This city is not safe until the murderer is found and brought to justice. Since the beginning I have been uneasy in my mind about this murderer, that he has no fear of God. He did not kill in a rage and then repent. He planned his kills. I felt compelled to help Captain Archer however I might.’

‘He’s been of great help to me,’ Owen said.

Thoresby sat with steepled hands, studying Hempe, and Owen thought he read approval in his expression.

‘They had no right to search my chamber,’ said Nicholas.

‘Be quiet, Master Nicholas.’ Thoresby had not moved his gaze from Hempe. ‘You follow your conscience, Master Bailiff, I have witnessed this before in you. I thank you for assisting Archer in this distasteful search.’

Hempe’s face glowed as he bowed to the archbishop. Owen was glad for him. The schoolmaster looked petulant. Owen thought it a strange little drama in the midst of something far more sinister.