Lady Maud gestured toward the prioress. ‘Might I suggest your parlor, Mother Prioress, where the fire has warmed the stones and you have a suitable chair for Dame Euphemia?’ Whom she studied with interest.
SIXTEEN
Ruined
The children abed, Kate, Lucie, and Jasper sat by the kitchen fire taking turns keeping Ariel the kitten engaged and away from the flame with string play and cuddles and the remnants of a meat pie. Their talk was aimless for they were all anxious to hear that Marian had safely arrived at St Clement’s and that Owen had found Ambrose before the Nevilles did.
Still apprehensive about the children’s recoveries, Lucie went to the nursery, listening to their breathing. Quiet, deep. God be thanked. Here was her heart, here in this home, her family. As with Owen, all she did in the larger world was to protect her loved ones, to do what she could to create a safe community that would embrace and support them. Amidst the drama of Marian and Ambrose, it felt important to remember this.
Making her way down to the hall she discovered Owen, his face twisted in frustration as he paced back and forth by the garden window. She waited until he turned toward her and then opened her arms to him.
‘Oh, my love,’ he sighed as he embraced her, clutching her to him as if she were his lifeline.
The sound of his strong, steady heartbeat reassured her, eased the worry that had become habit whenever he chased a criminal. She smiled at the contrary evidence of that heartbeat – frustrated he might be, but deep down he was confident. Kissing him on the cheek she wriggled out of his arms. ‘What is it?’
‘An evening wasted on a false report. We scoured the city south of the river all the way to Micklegate Bar and found no sign of Carl. But I know now what he’s suffered, why he might be out for revenge. And that he waited for Ambrose outside the minster.’ He described Paul’s confession, the conversation in the tavern, Neville’s cruelty. Despite Owen’s sense of Carl’s violent potential, Lucie understood the musician’s anger. As would Ambrose. ‘We will have no joy of the Nevilles,’ she said.
A bitter chuckle. ‘And I’ve had no word of Ambrose. None of our men have seen him.’
‘He knows the danger,’ said Lucie. ‘Perhaps he has found his protector.’
She saw the idea was no comfort to Owen. And understood. His heart’s desire was to help Ambrose fulfill his mission to save Prince Edward’s life, or at the very least reveal to the prince the source of his long, increasingly debilitating illness. She kissed Owen’s hand, touched his cheek. ‘Food and drink?’
He drew her back into his arms, kissed her hard, and, with a growl, scooped her up. Threading her arms round him she laughed softly as he carried her up the steps. In their chamber he eased her down onto the bed and flopped down, pulling her atop him.
‘I have wanted to do this for so long,’ he whispered, kissing her. ‘I mean to wait no longer.’
Jasper and Kate glanced up with concern that softened to curiosity when Lucie and Owen appeared in the kitchen smiling and arm in arm.
‘Now I am ready for your wonderful stew, Kate,’ said Owen, easing down onto a chair by the fire.
Lucie poured ale for both of them and settled near him. She had teased Owen about his lust, that his rough treatment of Paul had heated his blood, but he insisted it was the building frustration of the weeks sleeping in shifts, so that one of them could always be with the children, never together in bed. Afterward he’d conceded that the release in finally catching a suspect had stirred his blood, woken his appetites. She said a silent mea culpa for her gratitude. Such wantonness.
‘What of this treasure?’ she asked, impatient for the unveiling of something precious he had promised to show them all.
Jasper had been drowsing by the fire, but perked up at the question, keeping an eye on Owen while he finished the meal Kate had put out for him. When at last Owen sat back with a satisfied sigh Jasper cried, ‘Da! What did you find?’
‘Fetch me my scrip. On the peg beneath my cloak.’
Quick on his feet, Jasper delivered it with a bow, then hovered near.
Owen drew a small book out of his scrip. ‘Dame Marian’s prayer book.’
‘A Choir of Crows,’ Lucie murmured, receiving it into her hands, turning it round to admire the cover, the intricate design etched into the supple leather. Opening it, she was impressed by the elegant, most regular hand in which the prayers were written, and delighted by the illustrations, some inspiring, many comical.
Kate peered over her shoulder. ‘Fat crows,’ she remarked. ‘They feed well.’
Jasper joined her. ‘They look more like brothers than sisters,’ he said. ‘All the canons and vicars crowding in the minster choir cawing their praise of Archbishop Neville.’
‘Notice me! Notice me!’ Kate sang.
The humorous images – crows in the habits of Benedictine nuns standing in a choir, heads lifted up, beaks open in song, perched at refectory tables nibbling as one stood at a lectern, flapping down corridors, sitting in a circle pecking at embroideries – were interspersed with drawings of the Madonna and Child, Christ on the cross with the Marys weeping below, angels, and several of a human sister going about her chores, singing, kneeling in prayer, her pale face aglow. A compilation planned with humor, piety, and deep affection for a niece.
They were poring over the little book when the door opened, letting in a chilly breeze.
‘All will be well, I think,’ Alisoun said in greeting. And though she settled on the bench by the door with a weary sigh, she smiled at some thought while removing her boots, laughing as Ariel pawed at her skirt, scooping the kitten up to carry her to a seat
