But even Alisoun could not hasten the children’s recovery, could not allay their worry. The dread of pestilence was ever-present. Lucie and her first husband had lost their only child to the scourge.
Hours earlier, in the haunted time before dawn, Owen had held his son, his face buried in the boy’s fiery hair, praying for God to spare Hugh. ‘Take me, O Lord, take me.’ When the boy wriggled in his arms, Owen had tightened his grip, thinking he had gone limp and was slipping from his arms.
‘Da.’ The sound was little more than a sigh. But then damp fingers touched Owen’s cheek. Opening his one good eye, he found his son watching him. ‘Thirsty,’ Hugh lisped. Was there ever such a wonderful sound as his son’s voice? Ever such a tender touch?
Owen had called for Lucie, and she was at his elbow in a heartbeat, cup in hand, whispering endearments as tears fell down her cheeks.
‘Is Hugh awake?’ Gwen had whispered from her cot.
‘Yes, my sweet,’ Alisoun said. ‘His fever has broken.’
A moment so precious …
A knock on the door startled Owen from his thoughts. Wiping both his eyes – even the sightless one shed tears – he resettled the patch over his left eye and rose, crossing the room in a few strides.
Kate slipped out from behind the screen. ‘That might be Mistress Merchet with bread and ale. She’s brought them every day since the children fell ill.’
Opening the door, Owen began to announce the news and stopped. It was not Bess Merchet, but Brother Michaelo and someone swathed in a cloak, leaning heavily against the monk for support.
‘Forgive me, Captain,’ said Michaelo, breathless.
‘God’s blood, Michaelo, you are not bringing sickness into our home?’
‘I would not have come, but the precentor insisted you hold this poor pilgrim until—’ His companion began to slide out of his grasp, the hood falling away to reveal a fair young woman.
‘What madness is this?’ Owen muttered as he caught her up in his arms and carried her to a pallet that Kate had already retrieved from the corner and was piling with cushions.
‘Poor woman. Ale or broth?’ Kate asked as she helped Owen peel away the damp cloak and remove the woman’s boots.
‘Brandywine, then broth.’
Owen studied the woman. Worn boots, much-mended stockings, and tunic – a man’s tunic, her fair hair cut short. Her eyelids flickered now and then, and when Owen first began removing her boots she had kicked out, but his whispered reassurances quieted her. Or she was too weak to continue struggling. He noted that her stockings were surprisingly wet, the dampness elsewhere on her clothes. An icy draft reminded him of Michaelo, who still stood in the doorway.
‘You do me no favor sharing the fire with the garden. Step inside and close the door. Did you walk her here?’
‘No. Pulled her on a stoneworkers’ sledge. I left it in the tavern yard.’
While Michaelo fussed with his boots, Owen tucked blankets around the woman and debated whether to call for Lucie or Alisoun. But his wife was finally enjoying some much-needed rest, and Alisoun had charge of the children. Kate knelt to the woman with a bowl and spoon.
‘She has been passing for a man?’ he asked as the monk came to crouch beside him.
‘She is as you see. Captain, I would not have brought her here – your children – but her disguise fooled the others and – I sensed a desperation.’
‘Hugh’s fever has broken. Lucie is resting at last, as I soon hoped to be.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘You said the precentor says I am to hold her?’
‘Master Adam. Yes.’
‘Why? And by what authority?’
‘It is a long story.’
Owen rose. ‘Let us leave Kate to her task.’ Noticing how the monk winced as he tried to rise, Owen reached down to assist him. ‘She struggled?’
‘No, but she is so weak that she was of little help moving down the aisle and out of the minster. I did not want Theo or Master Adam’s clerks to assist. As I said, I thought it best they continue to think her a young man.’
‘The minster?’ Fetching the jug of ale and bowls, Owen sat down beside Michaelo, near enough to the fire, but far enough from the young woman that they might not disturb her. ‘Begin at the beginning.’ He poured for both of them.
‘Where to begin?’ Michaelo sat quietly for a moment, then described his night with the dying woman, Magda’s belated arrival, the walk home, the men’s shouts, the woman’s singing.
The tale raised many questions, but Owen allowed him to finish, and then said nothing for a few moments, ordering his thoughts. Difficult after days with little sleep. The men’s shouts – so at least one of the deaths might have occurred before Michaelo and Theo entered the chapter house.
‘Adam thinks the woman did all this? Murdered a vicar in the minster yard, entered the chapter house, climbed the steps, pushed someone off the roof, or the other way round, and then burst into song?’ A clever ruse if one had the strength. But the woman could not keep her eyes open. Had she induced the stupor?
‘Struggling with someone up on the roof – he implied she might have fought someone off. So fair …’
‘You think the vicar might be Ronan? What do you know of him?’
‘A piece I forgot. Before I went to Mary Garrett I saw him in the minster with a stranger.’
Owen listened with interest as Michaelo
