‘Any number of us, to be honest, and yet I have sensed nothing among those with whom I have spoken. Beecham detested the man, but he has just returned from London. The snow had trapped him south of York.’
‘What of Will Farfield?’ The silversmith whose apprentices had seemed frightened when Owen had called, saying their master was ill. Yet Lucie and Jasper had seen no one from his household in the shop despite the Farfields being regular customers. And there was something— ‘Did he not lose his wife or one of his daughters to pestilence?’ Owen asked.
Robert flinched.
‘I am a fair man, Robert, you know that.’
‘I do, Owen, I do.’ He pressed the bridge of his nose, nodded to himself. ‘Will sent his wife and children off to her parents in Shelby this past summer.’
‘Why?’
‘He claimed for fear of the pestilence. And then … When my wife called to see whether there was anything she might do she was sent away with such dispatch she worried about the welfare of his apprentices. I dislike accusing a fellow merchant …’
‘Is his business prospering?’
‘He has always struggled. A surly man at the best of times. Lacks his father’s eye for quality, has no patience with apprentices. No, his business is not prospering.’
Owen thanked him. ‘If you think of anyone else, encounter anyone …’
‘I will come to you,’ said Robert. ‘I swear.’
One of the apprentices knocked, and as Robert consulted with him regarding an order, Owen rose, nodded his thanks, and withdrew with Ambrose.
Crispin followed. Outside, they agreed on a plan.
‘I thank you for this,’ Owen said as they were parting.
‘You have my betrothed to thank for the idea. Muriel is my conscience, my guide. I seek her advice in everything. She encouraged me to distance myself from the archbishop, a connection that she believes will make it difficult for me among my fellow merchants.’
Owen had not guessed Muriel Swann to be someone so attuned to the temper of her late husband’s colleagues. ‘May God watch over her and the child in her womb,’ he said.
Returning to Jehannes’s house Owen explained Crispin’s plan. After some initial hesitation, Hempe, Jehannes, Michaelo, Lucie, and Marian admitted they could think of no timely alternative.
Michaelo offered to accompany the party, lending Marian the robe of a Benedictine monk for the walk to Crispin’s home.
‘A monk would not serve as an attendant for a widow,’ said Marian.
‘Carry your clothes with you,’ said Lucie. ‘Once you reach Crispin’s home you will shed the disguise. I will help you dress before I leave. You must look believable as a monk. We must hasten, for I must also prepare Alisoun and send her on her way.’
Michaelo went to fetch one of his habits and a hooded cape. Lucie asked Anna the cook for a comb and something to tie back Marian’s hair. When all was assembled, including a plain cloth sack for the change of clothing, Lucie led Marian into Jehannes’s parlor.
‘I cannot believe I will be back among sisters of my order so soon,’ Marian said, her eyes alight. She burst into the Benedicamus Domino she had sung earlier, lowered her voice and sang more, cutting herself off with laughter. In that same low voice she asked, ‘Will I do as a monk?’
Lucie smiled to see her come alive. ‘You will.’ But as she lifted Marian’s gown over her head, she groaned. ‘Your shift. You are bleeding.’
‘My courses?’
‘I believe so.’
Marian spun round and caught Lucie up in a hug. ‘That is good! Bless Dame Magda.’ She released Lucie and twisted the shift round to see. ‘But we have no time to wash out my shift.’
Lucie began to undress.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You will wear my shift beneath the monk’s robes.’ Lucie held it up for Marian. ‘Too short, but it matters not. Dame Euphemia’s maidservant is tall and slender. Borrow something from her. I will be back with cloths. You must inform the sisters of your needs tonight.’
‘Yes!’
Lucie silently echoed Marian, Bless Dame Magda.
When at last Marian stepped into the hall in Michaelo’s robes her stride was longer, her expression pinched, her voice, when she spoke, huskier than her normal tone but not as exaggerated as the voice that had set her laughing. A hood covered her hair.
‘You are transformed,’ said Michaelo, his smile expressing approval. ‘Shall we depart?’
Owen took Lucie aside. ‘How is she?’
‘Excited. Happy. I pray this works.’
A curt nod, signaling his concern. ‘I have checked round the house. It looks safe for them to depart. We have done all we can.’
‘I need to prepare Alisoun. Then we will have done all we can.’
Once the monks and Lucie had taken their leave, Owen turned his attention to Beck. Clearly the man knew far more than he had admitted.
Jehannes suggested the blinded man be questioned in his parlor, and that he attend. ‘I would know what I am sheltering in my home.’
Owen could hardly object, and Beck was sufficiently improved that he could walk with support. As Jehannes guided Beck into the parlor, describing where he was, adding cushions to the chair in which he was seated, asking whether he might need a lap rug, Anna followed with a bowl of ale to calm him, for the man behaved as if he were being summoned to his execution despite Owen’s assurance that he had nothing to fear as long as he told the truth. When Jehannes withdrew to his seat, and Beck appeared able to reach for the bowl beside him, Owen settled across from him, reaching out to touch his hand, let him know where he was.
He began by talking a little of his own experience in losing sight, some of the things he had found helpful,
