‘I heard there is a second body.’
‘Another fighting man. Seen more fighting than the first by the look of him.’
‘Has the coroner seen him?’
‘He has, and not too happy about being called back. Says the city owes him a new pair of boots. Ruined his in the snow. Next he’ll want a manservant sweeping the way for him.’
Owen stepped inside, opened a shutter on the lantern hanging on a hook within, and studied the newcomer. Poor sod. Boots heavy with river water, mouth agape. He had an oft-broken nose and a scar that pulled the left side of his mouth awry. Clothed well, his dagger missing. Someone in the city had a new weapon. Hempe would find it, unless it had sunk to the bottom of the Ouse. Even so, at low tide a shiny blade would not lie unclaimed for long. The clothing of both bodies suggested they were the unliveried retainers of powerful men, the sort one did not claim with badges, for they would see to the shadowy tasks – murder a rival, set fire to an enemy’s barn, steal the cattle.
With less than a month before Alexander Neville’s enthronement, at which time York would be crowded with representatives of all the powerful noble families in the North, such men were to be expected, ostensibly ensuring the safety of their masters. That several of them had converged on the minster in the early hours troubled him. Was Ambrose Coates the unwitting lure? It might explain this man’s death, if he had been following Ambrose to the mudflats. But then he could not have been the one Theo scared off.
The river rushed over the makeshift causeway that afforded access to the stone island on which sat the home of Magda Digby, the Riverwoman. At low tide. Not at present.
‘Penny to row you over, Captain.’ The gangly lad was already dragging the coracle toward the dark waters of the Ouse.
‘Penny to row me over and back?’
‘Seeing as it’s you …’
‘Is the Riverwoman at home?’
‘She is.’ A grin revealed dark spaces between rotten teeth. He held out his gloved hand for his pay, bit the coin with what teeth he had, then motioned for Owen to climb aboard. ‘Fine day for a crossing, Captain. A blessing the river ain’t frozen over.’
Owen laughed. It was hardly a crossing. Had it been warmer, he would not have bothered with the coracle. Where had the lad learned of rivers freezing over? Tidal rivers rarely did so, and Owen could not recall it happening in his time in York. The lad was too young to have been alive before Owen arrived in the city. He hardly had time to entertain these thoughts before they arrived. As the coracle nudged the rock Owen felt the familiar shower of needle pricks over his blind eye. A warning. On Magda’s island? He shook off the thought and stepped out, offered to help lift the boat out of the water.
But the lad declined, already pushing away as he glanced up at the dragon that hung upside down from the remnant of a Viking longboat that constituted the roof of Magda’s weather-tight home. ‘I will wait for you from the bank.’
Likely he did not care to sit beneath the dragon. Preferring the lad not overhear his conversation with Magda, Owen did not argue. ‘Another penny to refuse transport to anyone else, and give me a full description of them when I am ready to return?’
A gappy grin. ‘Agreed.’
Owen tossed him the coin, then turned to rap on the door. But it was already swinging open. Across the threshold stood the old healer, her strange garb of many colors making her seem to flutter in place.
‘Has Hugh’s fever broken?’ she asked.
‘In the night,’ said Owen. ‘Now they all rest.’
A brief smile. ‘But there is no rest for thee, Bird-eye. Thy clear-seeing hast brought thee to roost precisely where Magda would have thee. An old friend awaits.’ She beckoned him inside.
Bowing to clear the lintel, Owen breathed deep as he stepped into the warm, aromatic space. He had come to appreciate the bouquet of herbs and roots and the curious scent of Magda’s hearth fire. She never divulged what woods fueled it, but he had never smelled a fire so subtle and rich.
A man rose from a low stool and took a step backward, as if uncertain of his welcome, his delicate hands crossed over his heart. Though the hair was no longer than Owen’s, and dark, the cheeks less round than in memory, the eyes sunken, the hands gave him away. ‘Ambrose.’
A slight nod. ‘Owen.’ More a worried whisper than a greeting.
‘What is this?’ Owen spread wide his arms. ‘I rush here to see you, old friend, and you back away? You know me better than that.’ He embraced Ambrose, who was taut with fear. Stepping back, Owen assured him that he came with no purpose but to hear his story.
‘Forgive me. I should know from old that you seek ever to balance justice with mercy.’
‘Have you need for mercy?’
‘Dame Magda tells me I have left a trail of trouble, though how that has come to pass …’ Ambrose spread his arms as if to show he carried no weapon.
Magda touched Owen’s elbow. ‘Thou hast not slept this night, Bird-eye. Wouldst thou accept a tonic in a cup of brandywine?’
‘To help me think? I would, with thanks.’
He settled on a low bench by the fire, leaning forward to rub his hands, waiting for Ambrose to begin. But he merely stared back.
Magda handed Owen the cup. ‘Thou art wasting time, Minstrel. Thou hast come a long way to save thy prince and thyself. Sit down and confide in thy friend.’
‘Your prince?’ Owen asked as Ambrose resumed his seat. ‘French or English?’
‘A fair question. Prince Edward, heir to the English throne and Duke of Aquitaine. I have spent years at the French court, it is true. Waiting for a lover who never returned. And while I waited I
