‘She was not feverish when she arrived, but she is now.’ Lucie lifted the woman’s shift to examine her groin and armpits for boils. Nothing. God be thanked.
Settling across from Lucie, Magda bent to sniff the young woman’s breath, pressed an ear to her chest, wiped the sweat from her neck and tasted it. ‘Not all fevers point to illness. Long has she lived in the guise of a young man, unable to take her ease, alert to discovery, ready to take flight,’ said Magda. ‘Minstrel says she has been fasting and depriving herself of sleep as penances for he knows not what. Now that she is in a safe place, her body is taking her deep into a healing sleep. When thy mother first came to Freythorpe she had witnessed the slaughter of friends and kin, forced to hide, starving, cold.’
Lucie’s late mother was Norman, from a noble family. A war prize bestowed on her father for his valor in the king’s war for the crown of France.
‘She had such a fever?’
Magda touched Lucie’s hand, as if to comfort her. ‘Amelie burned fierce while she slept such a deep sleep thine aunt worried she was dying. But Magda knew it to be a healing fire. When she woke, the memories were dimmed. A mercy. Come. Thou hast abundant stores in thine apothecary to assist her body in healing. Magda will guide thee.’
‘Should someone stay with her?’ Lucie asked, though she did not have anyone to spare.
‘Nay. Though she may wake at any moment, she will be too weak to harm herself. Alisoun can see to her. Thy children will not need all her attention.’
‘But Muriel Swann hopes to have Alisoun at her lying in.’
‘Magda will see to that.’
‘Alisoun might not wish to stay.’
‘Magda will speak with her.’
‘You have confidence Alisoun can care for this woman?’
A smile. ‘The two young women will find much to share. Both have been tested, proved strong.’
‘We know nothing of this woman. My children sleep in the next room.’
‘Magda does sense an anger in her that she fights to drown with remorse. But she has no cause to point that anger at thee or thy family.’
‘Remorse. Do you sense she harmed someone?’
‘Who has not?’
If Magda had meant to reassure Lucie, she had failed.
As Owen had hoped, Lotta Hempe accepted the situation without argument, sitting Ambrose down by the kitchen fire while she set her maidservant to work airing out the bedchamber and lighting a fire in the brazier.
‘Walking from Magda’s rock to our home in such weather,’ Lotta tsked. ‘We must stoke the fire in your belly, Master Ambrose. Cook will see that you have something to eat and drink. Bring the strong claret,’ she said to the woman standing over a cauldron of something aromatic, spicy.
‘A good choice, mistress,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron and bustling to a locked cabinet in the corner.
Hempe paced in the hall, seeming eager to get back out into the city. Owen understood. They had stopped to show Ambrose the two corpses. He believed the fallen one to be the young woman’s watcher at Cawood. He might have seen the drowned one there as well. All helpful. Taking him past had been worth the risk, but it had heightened Hempe’s alarm. ‘I would see what my men learned from the guards at the gates. Meet me at the York in early evening?’
Owen agreed.
Upon Hempe’s departure Owen went in search of Lotta to thank her for taking on this task.
Standing in what would be Ambrose’s bedchamber, a spacious room with good light and a door to the back garden, she responded to his thanks with a warm smile, her eyes alight. ‘I am honored to have Dame Magda recommend me, and for your confidence. George is a fool about women. He wants to coddle and protect me. His trade has benefited from my partnership, but he does not think of me as a partner. I ignore him and go about my work.’ A widow, she had put much of her wealth in George’s shipping interests when they wed.
‘Marriage changes a man, but slowly,’ said Owen. ‘Lucie was patient with me.’
She touched Owen’s scar, a surprising gesture of affection. Seeming to remember herself, she withdrew it, asking in a brusque tone, ‘Should I expect trouble? Have our manservant accompany me on my rounds?’
He was glad she understood they did not yet know the danger. ‘That would be wise. Would you note anything in Ambrose’s conversation, or his requests, that might provide me with additional information? I am particularly keen to learn of anything he has to say about the dead man, Ronan.’
‘I will stay alert and report anything I might learn, Captain.’ She bobbed her head, all business. ‘Is he a good musician?’
‘Ask him to play and sing for you.’ It reminded him of Lucie’s request to return Ambrose’s instruments to his care. ‘We have kept his most treasured instruments for him all these years. Might I bring them? It would provide him occupation – tuning, polishing.’
She made a face. ‘I pray he is not one of those who takes hours to find the pitch.’ But she agreed. ‘Bring them when you can. Now go, be about your work. Let him settle in.’
By now the streets were crowded despite the slush and the dripping eaves. With his height and his scarred face, the patch over his useless left eye, Owen was not a man who could disappear among those going about their day. Yet although folk stepped aside they did not fall silent at his passing, but rather plied him with questions, prayed for his speedy delivery of the murderer, named possible suspects –
