‘Bless you, Bess.’ Lucie hugged her friend and hurried off. George Hempe’s home seemed most likely. Marian sought to speak with Ambrose. As with her daughter, Lucie needed to be warier about speaking anywhere near Marian. Returning to the house for her cloak, she told Kate where she was headed, in case Owen returned before she did.
On Stonegate she responded to greetings and called out a few of her own so as not to call attention to herself by seeming preoccupied or in a hurry. On Low Petergate she muttered a curse as the ever-ailing pastor of Christchurch approached. If he delayed her with his usual litany of complaints she feared she might snap at him. But he merely bobbed his head with a short greeting and an apology for being in a rush. God be thanked. And there was the door to the Hempe home. Her knock was quickly answered by a flustered Lotta.
‘Are you here after that woman? Your guest?’
A moment of relief. ‘Yes. Is she here?’
Lotta drew Lucie in, shut the door. ‘No. But I believe I know where she has gone, the foolish child. I passed her at the crossing on Stonegate heading toward the minster gate. I thought her a peddler at first, or beggar, with the torn and stained cloak too short to cover her gown. But there was something about her. I watched her pass through the gate and hurried home to ask Ambrose why she might be about.’
Lucie had not noticed Ambrose sitting by the fire. He joined them now, his face folded in concern.
‘Perhaps the minster? She might have lost something there?’ he said.
‘Owen already searched and confronted her with what she had lost there,’ said Lucie. Archbishops and archdeacons, Gwen had said. ‘I think she might be seeking Dom Jehannes.’
Lotta sighed. ‘You should know, Sir John Neville’s party has arrived in the city. They will be occupying the palace in the minster yard. It is dangerous for her there.’
‘So soon?’ Lucie felt her heart racing.
‘Let me accompany you,’ said Ambrose. Lucie and Lotta both protested the idea, but he argued that he was responsible for bringing Marian to York. ‘If she is causing trouble, I want to help.’
‘You have no need to make amends,’ said Lucie. She told them a little of what they had learned about the evening in the minster, enough to explain why Marian had been there, and that she had betrayed him.
Ambrose shrugged it off. ‘I care not whether she betrayed me. You are the ones I want to help. With my hair shorn and colored, who will recognize me?’
‘And how would you help?’ Lucie asked, though a possibility occurred to her. ‘Is Martin Wirthir in the city?’
Ambrose looked pained. ‘Well you might wonder. I have as well, ever since safely crossing from Calais. My sudden decision to leave the court and return to the country I had seemingly abandoned … Those who had spoken so freely in my presence, would they not be alarmed? I felt almost certain I would be followed, at least for a time. Or worse. That I would not reach Dover. One hears tales. To drown on the crossing is a common way to eliminate the inconvenient.’
‘Yet you left,’ said Lotta.
‘No one deserves to suffer as Prince Edward is suffering. He is at the mercy of treacherous physicians and godless nobles who laugh at his pain, who applaud his humiliation. I want to believe that my empty years in that court will benefit the realm. That God meant me to be there to learn this.’ Ambrose seemed alight, as when he performed. This appeared no artifice, but a passion that arose from deep within him.
‘I pray Owen may convince the prince’s envoys to hear you out and help you carry out your mission,’ she said. ‘But what of Martin Wirthir?’
‘Martin.’ A whisper. ‘I felt his protection throughout my journey. It gave me the courage to continue. But he has not revealed himself to me.’
‘Someone else?’
‘It is possible. Denis, a friend from court. A close friend. A man much like Martin, but until now loyal to King Charles. He divined my reason for leaving and encouraged me.’ Ambrose shrugged at Lucie’s frown. ‘I fail in subtlety, I know. He might have betrayed me. But I think not. And if he is here in the city he might have gathered information for me while I have been off the streets.’
‘Do you believe he would help us?’ asked Lotta.
‘If he sees that I walk freely with Dame Lucie, I believe so.’
‘Your hair? Will he know you looking like that?’ asked Lucie.
‘If he is here, he doubtless followed the captain and your husband from the riverbank yesterday.’
So many ifs. It was a risk, either way. But with the Nevilles so close, Owen would be pressed to resolve the murder quickly to avert the risk that they, or others, would falsely name someone convenient to them, whose death would serve as a warning. An innocent would suffer. And the murderer would still be free.
‘No gloves, no singing,’ Lucie warned.
Ambrose hurried to fetch his cloak, but Lotta stopped him, offering one of her husband’s cloaks. ‘You must not walk out in clothes they will know.’
Glancing up from his work, Brother Michaelo discovered goodwife Anna hovering in the doorway of his chamber. He must remember to close the door while he worked. When the archdeacon was out the cook seemed unable to pass an hour without a question for Michaelo.
‘A woman to see you,’ said Anna. ‘I think she is the one you rescued in the minster. Pale hair and eyes, tall, skinny. She calls herself Dame Marian.’
‘Alone?’
A nod.
Had she run away? Michaelo took a deep breath.
‘May God watch over us,’ said Anna.
