The Guilt of Innocents (37 page)

‘There’s no time to explain,’ said Owen. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s gone?’

Jasper shook his head.

‘We need to get you home,’ Owen said. ‘Can you walk?’

Jasper inched his legs over to hang off the side of the pallet. Owen helped him stand, holding him as he struggled for his balance.

‘Not yet.’ Owen helped him sit back down.

‘Jasper! Praise God,’ Alfred exclaimed from the doorway. ‘Captain, the bailiff –’

Hempe pushed Alfred out of the way. ‘Dame Lotta’s servant came for me. Osmund Gamyll is at her home, threatening her. The servant is old, Osmund must have thought he would not muster the strength to go for help. Lotta was Nigel’s landlord.’

‘Rafe, stay with Jasper,’ said Owen. ‘Gilbert – no that won’t work, Lucie can’t come through the snow, not now.’ He couldn’t think what to do. They would waste time sending for Brother Henry, for he might not be in the infirmary.

‘We’ll take him home, Captain, don’t worry,’ Gilbert said. ‘You’ve got three with you.’

Hempe led the way. A neighbour was pacing in front of Dame Lotta’s house. The street door stood wide open.

‘What has happened?’ the neighbour asked Hempe. ‘I’ve never seen old Paul rush like that, and there were shouts. They’re in the lodger’s room, down the alley.’

Alfred thanked him and told him to go home now.

‘There’s a door in the alley, the one from the hall, and a window on the very back,’ said Hempe.

‘Let’s see if we can look in the window,’ Owen suggested, his head clearer now that Jasper was safe.

A shutter was partly opened. Owen first saw only Dame Lotta, who was sitting on a bed shaking
her head with a look of disgust, but he heard a man’s voice, slurring and broken with drink and fear. Standing on Alfred’s knee, he was able to see enough to locate Osmund off to one side of the window, a large mazer in his hand. His speech was too slurred and muffled to understand.

But Dame Lotta spoke quite clearly. ‘You’ll find no sympathy here. You should have thought about God’s vengeance before you committed such deeds. You’re not a child, you know better.’

Owen was relieved to hear her strong voice, but concerned that she would antagonise a man who had little to lose in murdering one more. He climbed down and withdrew to the street with Baldwin and Hempe.

‘I heard her,’ said Baldwin. ‘Too late he comes to a healthy fear of the Lord. She sounds uninjured, how does she look?’

‘I saw no sign of injury,’ said Owen.

‘Thank God,’ said Hempe.

‘But that could change at any time,’ Owen said. ‘He is drunk, he may lose control of himself.’

‘Aye,’ Baldwin agreed.

They quickly conceived a plan. Baldwin would confront his son by entering through the hall door which faced him. Hempe would guard the window, though it was unlikely Osmund would attempt to crawl out, and Owen would be at the alley door. Ready to kill him, Owen thought.

He waited until he heard Baldwin thunder his son’s name before he cracked open the door.
Osmund was standing with open mouth, the mazer tilted, spilling wine.

‘What? Are you here?’ Osmund looked confused, then angry. ‘Get out!’

‘What have you done, Osmund?’ Baldwin’s voice was harsh with agony, but powerfully loud. ‘How many have you killed in your greed?’

Osmund tossed the cup aside and tried to straighten. His eyes flickered from Sir Baldwin to Dame Lotta, and then he clumsily bolted for the door.

Owen grabbed him and kept his forearm to his throat as he turned him to face his father, pressing as hard as he could without crushing his windpipe though it was all he could do to resist the instinct to kill him. Sir Baldwin stood in the middle of the room staring at his son with a world of pain in his eyes and in the twist of his mouth.

Hempe pushed past Owen and Osmund to go to Lotta. She shook her head at him. ‘Not now. Get this drunken murderer out of here first, the mewling beast, creature of the devil. He murdered them both – Nigel and the pilot – and now he fears God’s wrath and that of his fellow man. Get him out of my house.’

Owen dragged Osmund into the alley. Baldwin’s martial form blocked the light in the doorway.

‘What will you do with him?’ he asked.

‘Take him to York Castle gaol until the sheriff and the archbishop come to some agreement,’ said Hempe. ‘That is the law.’

It was not what Owen wanted to do with him, but in his heart he knew Lucie would want him to cooperate with Hempe, to let the man take his punishment from the king’s men. ‘I’ll go with you there,’ he said.

Sir Baldwin nodded. ‘I’ll accompany you as well.’

In a room lit only by a rush light, Osmund mumbled his confession, a jumble of self-righteous resentment and misplaced pride. Drogo he’d murdered for his greediness, for his betrayal, as Ysenda had feared.

‘And Nigel the journeyman?’ Hempe barked. ‘What threat was he to you?’

‘He wanted me to pay him for his silence. He shouldn’t have been any threat to me. I had nothing to do with the birthing cross Drogo showed him. Drogo should rot in hell, not me!’ Osmund’s voice was little more than a forced whisper.

Owen opened the box he’d found in Osmund’s room. ‘Which poison did you use on Drogo?’ he asked.

Osmund shook his head and looked away.

‘Why did you go to Dame Lotta?’ Hempe asked.

‘I went to a dead man’s chamber to hide while I thought about what to do.’

‘Why did you put Drogo’s ring in the scrip?’ Owen asked.

Osmund rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I can’t think. I need sleep. My throat hurts.’

‘Answer the question,’ Hempe said sharply.

‘Confusion! It was worth too little to risk selling, so I tucked it in. You thought about it, didn’t you?’ Osmund’s laugh was eerily high-pitched, then dissolved into a wheeze.

‘Let him sleep off the drink,’ Baldwin said in a voice flat with disappointment.

Hempe nodded. ‘I want him clear-headed in my court tomorrow, and able to speak.’

It was dark by the time Owen opened his hall door and crossed the room to hug Lucie as hard as he dared.

‘You are a welcome sight,’ she murmured, reaching for her cap, which he’d knocked back. ‘Oh, my love, what a horror. But Jasper will be fine. He will.’

Jasper sat by the fire in a high-backed chair, his feet propped up on a stool. He smiled at Owen. Phillippa was massaging one of his wrists. Alisoun sat beside him, and Edric nearby.

‘I see you are well attended,’ said Owen, unable to modulate his voice to hide his emotions. ‘I did not think to see –’ He dropped his head, took a breath.

‘I wish I could have seen the three of you at Dame Lotta’s,’ said Jasper, already sounding stronger. ‘Did Osmund crawl?’

‘No, but he will find it difficult to talk or swallow for a while.’ Owen managed a grin.

‘So I helped?’

‘I doubt he would have felt confident enough to get drunk had you still been sneaking around.’

Jasper smiled, but quickly grew serious. ‘He said Dame Ysenda is dead.’

Owen shook his head. ‘He left Weston too soon to know she’d been found alive. She has survived to give witness against him.’

‘I’m glad she’s alive,’ said Jasper. ‘Hubert’s suffered enough.’

Lucie tugged Owen’s arm. ‘Come to the kitchen, my love. Gwenllian and Hugh will be so happy to see you.’

Owen accompanied her across the hall. In the space between the hall and kitchen doors, beneath the stairs, he paused. ‘He’s my son, there’s no question of that,’ he said. ‘When I thought he was dead –’ His breath caught. ‘If Sir Baldwin hadn’t been there I would have thrust deep into Osmund’s heart and watched him bleed to death.’

Lucie pulled his face down to hers and kissed him long and hard. When she let him go, she said, ‘Come back to me now, my love. It is over. Your part is finished.’

He took her hand in his and breathed more easily. ‘It is. It is done.’

For George Hempe it had only begun. The bailiff’s court was crowded with people who suspected Osmund Gamyll of selling goods stolen from their homes and businesses, as well as the usual onlookers, curious what sort of heir to a knight
of the realm would stoop to theft and murder merely to accumulate wealth. He judged that with so many already making claims there would be more to come, and in the interest of recovering as much as possible he postponed Osmund’s execution for a fortnight or longer – most likely he would be in the castle gaol until after the Yuletide. Archbishop Thoresby agreed to the delay.

His notoriety as the bailiff who’d scotched the thief brought him even more trade. He felt he was too busy to sleep. But even had it not been good for business, Hempe would not have regretted assisting Owen with the investigation, for he did not see how he might otherwise have begun his courtship of Lotta.

As Jasper gazed down on the wonder of Emma Archer, her impossibly tiny fingers wrapped around Captain Archer’s calloused one, he felt at peace. This was Jasper’s family, this was where he belonged, where he would always belong. He was at ease as he laughed with Archbishop Thoresby and Brother Michaelo over Gwenllian’s and Hugh’s efforts to dominate their new sibling. He was comfortable helping Kate and Alisoun greet people at the hall door, helping them out of their snow-encrusted cloaks and directing them to the refreshments. He felt himself moving in time to Tom Merchet’s merry fiddling.

He’d had the honour of taking the beautifully wrapped mazer from Brother Michaelo on his arrival and delivering it to the captain. He’d watched as Emma Ferriby, first godmother, had cradled her namesake in her arms so that Dame Lucie – his ma – could unwrap her gift. She’d exclaimed in wonder at the beautiful workmanship and held it up to
Jasper to examine while the captain – his da – beamed and the archbishop proclaimed loudly, ‘Well done, Archer.’

Maud, the wet nurse, stood with Magda Digby off to one side, awaiting her charge, her own pretty babe in her arms. Jasper was glad Magda had been there when his mother’s labour began, even though the Gamyll birthing cross had made an easy delivery likely. Sir Baldwin had gladly let the captain keep it until after the birth. Still, Magda’s presence had eased everyone’s fears.

It was a wonder how everything changed with the birth of a healthy child.

‘We’ve all much to be grateful for,’ Master Nicholas said, quietly joining Jasper. ‘May God watch over this household.’

‘Amen,’ whispered Jasper. He noticed Alisoun sitting down, free for a moment. He went to her.

She smiled up at him as she fanned her face with her long-fingered hands. She had beautiful hands. ‘Come, sit beside me, tell me all the gossip,’ she said.

‘I’d hoped to hear of your meeting with the shipman’s daughter,’ said Jasper.

Alisoun shrugged. ‘She found me unsuitable. I know nothing of cloth and ribbons, jewellery, shoes, hats.’

‘That’s part of what’s so pleasant about you,’ Jasper said. He reached for her hand.

She gave it to him, curling her long fingers through his.

This tale is told against the larger historical background of Prince Edward’s declining hold on the Aquitaine, the south-western expanse of present-day France that had been added to the kingdom of England by Eleanor of Aquitaine. Several factors were turning the tables on King Edward’s war with France in the favour of the French: King Charles V of France proved a far more formidable opponent than had his predecessor King John; in joining Pedro the Cruel’s fight to regain the throne of Castile, Prince Edward had wasted his resources, thereby jeopardising his ability to hold the allegiances of the Gascon lords, and had also contracted a virulent illness, most likely dysentery, on the mission that hastened his untimely death (in 1376 at the age of forty-six). But King Edward planned a double offensive against the French in the summer of 1372, the Earl of Pembroke striking first with a campaign in the Aquitaine, to be followed by the king
himself and Prince Edward campaigning in northern France. The offensive was abandoned when a Castilian fleet trapped the Earl of Pembroke’s fleet in the harbour of La Rochelle, capturing the earl and destroying the fleet. Few on the English ships survived. At the beginning of the story, Aubrey de Weston and his lord are feared lost in this battle, but they had fortunately been away from the fleet on a separate mission. An absent father provided a necessary piece of the foreground I planned for the book, the minster’s grammar school, St Peter’s.

One summer afternoon I was sitting in York Minster Library with a collection of the present-day St Peter’s School newsletters, which often carry titbits of school history – I’d decided that it was time to give Jasper de Melton, Owen and Lucie’s adopted son, a larger role in a book, and that it was high time I explored the Minster grammar school. I found a historical account of a bargeman who fell into the Ouse during a skirmish between the scholars and the bargemen; I was struck by the image of him being carried to the statue of the Virgin outside St Mary’s gates, and the fact that despite the prayers he died – particularly because the event actually took place in the month of May, which told me the man did not die of hypothermia. I found Angelo Raine’s book on the history of St Peter’s School that same day. Apparently the tension between the young scholars and the bargemen had existed
for a long while, a variation on ‘town and gown’ conflicts in many university towns. This brought the past alive for me – suddenly the young scholars were mischievous and the bargemen gruff and resentful.