‘I am here,’ said Lucie, kneeling to Ambrose, taking his hand, whispering his name. When Owen showed her where the knife had entered, she agreed he was most fortunate.
‘But he lost so much blood,’ said Denis.
‘He will be weak,’ she said, ‘but I feel no fever. That is good.’ Kate handed her the basket in which she kept her medicines and bandages, offered all four ale.
The day had begun.
Shortly before dawn, Stephen and Alfred called to report quiet nights on the watches set around Hempe’s and the chancellor’s houses. Both men were relieved to see Ambrose. One search to call off. They offered to help search for Carl.
Denis said he had disappeared on the opposite side of Stonegate from Robert Dale’s shop, past Swinegate. The description fit the home and shop of the silversmith Will Farfield.
First Owen wanted to move Ambrose to the safety of St Mary’s infirmary. Lucie agreed to the idea, though of course he could not walk there. Not bothering to don a cloak, Owen crossed to the York Tavern, already well lit, the staff bustling about the morning chores.
His eyes still puffy with sleep, Tom Merchet listened to Owen’s proposal, scratching his chin, yawning. ‘You are in luck, my friend. I’ve a few barrels I might spare. The lay brother at the postern gate has the abbot’s blessing to give me access in the early hours.’
‘What about Bootham Bar? Will they let you through?’
‘For free tankards for an evening they will.’ Tom tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Carry him over and we will tuck him in with your message.’
‘Bless you.’
‘Now hurry before my Bess wastes your time with more questions.’
Once Ambrose was safely delivered to Tom, the four set out, watching the street and the alleys as they approached Will Farfield’s. Most of the shops showed signs of life, lamps flickering, smoke rising from chimneys and snaking down the alleys, a few apprentices sweeping the doorsteps. But Will Farfield’s shop was dark. An apprentice at the entrance next door leaned on his broom and watched Owen and the others circling the building.
‘Sent his apprentices off a few days ago. One of them staying with us,’ he said when Owen greeted him.
‘Do you think the apprentice would talk to me?’
‘Still sleeping. I have the early shift. If you want to talk to him later …’
‘I will come by if I still need information. He’s a fortunate lad.’
‘The master will work him hard, but he’s kind and we eat well.’ A grin. ‘Will you be dragging Master Will away for his debts?’
‘I am not a debt collector, lad. Keeping the peace, that is what we’re about.’
The lad glanced at the hulking shape of Stephen, the wiry edginess of Denis, but he was most interested in Alfred, who was working the lock on Will’s shop door. Grinning, the apprentice bid Owen good luck and hurried into his shop, no doubt to share what he had learned.
‘Best take Carl now, before we collect an audience,’ said Owen. He directed Denis and Alfred to slip inside the shop and hold there, ready to catch anyone trying to escape. He and Stephen would go in through the rear door.
At the back Stephen chose to kick in the door rather than fiddle with a lock and risk being heard, stepping aside to allow Owen to enter first. In the dim light a man cowered in a corner moaning, ‘I am ruined, ruined. God help me, I am ruined.’ Stephen lit a lamp from the embers of the kitchen fire, revealing the speaker to be Will Farfield.
‘You are injured?’ Owen asked the silversmith, touching his blood-stained shirt.
‘Not mine. His.’ Will started shivering.
‘We’ll stoke the fire when we have him,’ said Owen. ‘Is he here?’
A nod. ‘He heard you and ran toward the shop.’
Gesturing to Stephen to stay with Will, Owen picked up the lamp and stepped into the next room. Quiet, dark, but gradually he detected rough breathing, soft, muffled. Setting down the lamp, Owen crept toward the sound. It paused. He paused.
‘We know you are here, Carl. We surround you. You have nowhere to run.’
With a hiss the man reared up and lunged at Owen with a knife in his fist ready to stab. But Owen had halted where he had space to step aside and let the man crash to the floor. By the time Stephen rushed in Owen knelt on Carl’s back, holding down the man’s bandaged arm.
‘I cannot breathe,’ Carl cried, proving the lie.
‘If I let you up and you charge me, you’re a dead man. Understand?’ A feeble attempt to nod. Owen plucked Carl up by the shoulders and dragged him out to the kitchen before he could regain his footing.
‘I have them!’ he shouted. He heard Denis and Alfred fumbling their way toward them through the shop.
Stephen moved Will Farfield to a bench and turned to help Owen with Carl, who had begun to struggle.
‘I will see to him,’ Denis called and lunged toward the man in Owen’s grasp.
Jerking Carl to the side Owen kicked over a stool to trip Denis. He fell and rolled away.
Denis picked himself up, muttering French curses.
‘I want the story while he has his teeth and can still be understood,’ said Owen.
Owen pushed Carl down onto the bench. ‘I will tie you down if you try to move.’
‘The folk talk of you as the guardian angel of the city. What will they think when they learn you’re protecting a pair of spies for King Charles?’
‘By the time you are able to speak in any public space they will know the truth about Ambrose, you fool.’
Carl cradled his bandaged arm. ‘I’m bleeding again,’ he whimpered.
‘Be quiet,’ Stephen growled.
Owen
