The Guilt of Innocents (10 page)

Unfortunately, Nicholas already had a guest, his brother Canon William.

Nicholas gestured to Owen to take a seat by
the brazier. His brother had taken the one seat with a back, which Owen guessed to be the schoolmaster’s chair during the school day. The room was tidy except for a cupboard from which books, papers, rolls poked out every which way, giving the impression that the knowledge was reaching out into the room to grab the nearest mind.

Nicholas settled down near him. The sweat on his brow and upper lip belied his assurance that he and William had been idly chatting and welcomed another participant. Something uncomfortable had transpired between them, Owen thought.

‘This is a pleasant room,’ said Owen. ‘My children’s nurse, Alisoun Ffulford, is one of your scholars and speaks highly of your skill in teaching.’

The schoolmaster forced a smile. ‘Alisoun. Yes. She has a quick mind, Captain. I am gratified to hear she speaks well of my little school. I am delighted to have several young women attending.’

After a pause, in which Owen tried but failed to come up with a comment that could not be construed as referring to his troubles with the dean and chancellor, Nicholas filled in the silence.

‘Did Archbishop Thoresby assign you to guard me, Captain?’ he asked. ‘The crowd was vicious last night. Vicious.’ He pressed his hands together and shook his shoulders as if shivering. It was an incongruously comical gesture as it was plain in his eyes and voice that he was upset.

‘I heard, yes, but they were clearly wrongheaded – the man was still alive. Did you know Drogo?’

The schoolmaster shook his head, wide-eyed and quick to add, ‘Why would I?’

‘I thought perhaps you might have the occasion to travel by boat between Weston and York and might have had occasion to hire him as pilot.’ Owen did not actually believe this, but he thought he might see something in the man’s response.

‘A costly means of travel,’ William noted, ‘and slow, considering the weirs and rapids on the River Wharfe. It would waste time.’ Weston sat on the Wharfe’s north bank west of Leeds.

Owen was disappointed to learn nothing from Nicholas’s reaction. ‘So you’d never met Drogo, but you stepped up to say prayers over him last night?’ Owen allowed his tone and frown to add that he found that puzzling.

‘I am a priest, Captain.’ Nicholas’s voice cracked slightly, and he blushed and glanced away. ‘I would do so for any poor soul.’

‘For that I can vouch,’ said William. The canon was a quiet, expressionless man, quite a contrast to his brother.

Owen pretended to be satisfied. ‘My business is with Hubert de Weston, whose lost scrip seemed to be at the core of this trouble. The lad’s been missing a week. As you are pastor of Weston I wondered whether you might have had news of him.’

Nicholas shrank back a little, and had begun to shake his head when William spoke up.

‘My brother saw his father at Mass on Sunday, didn’t you, Nicholas?’

A pale nod met this betrayal. Owen wondered why Nicholas had not wished him to know the father was safely at home. ‘I did see Aubrey de Weston, yes. But not young Hubert.’ He avoided looking at William.

Owen wondered whether Nicholas hadn’t wanted to reveal that he’d been in Weston the previous Sunday, or whether he was merely picking up echoes of the brothers’ conflict.

‘It would have been a kindness to tell Master John of St Peter’s that Hubert’s father was safe at home.’

‘Tell Master John?’ Nicholas sputtered. ‘I am hardly one to say anything to Master John at present, though he is not as vicious as the dean and chancellor.’ He glared at his brother, who dropped his blank gaze to the floor.

A mere courtesy might go a long way to soothing tempers, thought Owen, but he went straight to his purpose. ‘I’ve come to ask the way to the lad’s home.’

‘You’re off to Weston?’ asked William.

‘I am.’

‘But why, Captain?’ Nicholas asked.

‘In the hope of finding the lad and talking to him about Drogo,’ said Owen. ‘So. Can you tell me how to find him? And the Gamyll manor?’

‘Why the Gamylls?’ Nicholas asked.

‘As a courtesy. I’ll be on their land.’

‘But of course,’ said Nicholas, and pulling a wax tablet from a stack nearby he drew a map.

As Owen left the minster liberty he found himself anxious to arrive in Weston before something more happened. He was quite certain that Nicholas had not wished to be completely open with him, but why he felt that he was not sure. He would have Alfred keep an eye on him.

S
everal days earlier, Hubert de Weston had approached his home with caution. Despite being hungry, thirsty and sore of foot, he’d hesitated to make himself known to his mother, for the closer he’d come, the more he’d doubted she’d be glad to see him. She had insisted that he return to school, believing that with an education he would be ensured a good life. So she would not be happy that he’d run away. But he would be so relieved to see her – that was his goal, and to make sure that she was all right. Then he could return to school with a clear conscience, though he dreaded the journey back. He’d also dreaded discovering that his mother was not well, or – he’d feared even imagining ‘the something worse’ because if evil thoughts were sins then thoughts had power, just as charms did. He’d crossed himself and prayed that his mother was well, that the cross he’d lost did not have the power of a charm.

On his approach a rhythmic sound had caught his attention – it was like something sliding and thumping, sliding and thumping, and he’d recognised it as the sound of chain mail being rocked, spun in the rocker barrel with wood chips and oil. But Aubrey had taken all his chain mail with him. Hubert had had a sinking feeling in his belly as he’d considered the possibility that his father was alive and here. This was not the something worse that he’d feared, but it was bad enough.

He’d pressed his palms against the house and prayed that he would find his mother rocking something other than chain mail, that her cheeks would be rosy with the cold air and her eyes bright, and that she would turn towards him and light up with joy at his coming. Then he’d peered around the corner and seen Aubrey about ten paces from the house, his face screwed up in anger, his lips moving in a silent rant as he’d turned the rocking barrel on its stand. Hubert had imagined he was cursing about doing his own work; he was never satisfied with his family, never.

‘Aubrey?’ His mother’s voice had come from the house – she must be at the door.

Hubert not only had not stepped forward to see around the corner, he’d retreated a little, unsure he wanted either of his parents to see him yet.

‘Husband,’ she’d called out in a stronger voice tinged with irritation.

Aubrey had not stopped turning the handle at
once, but he’d slowed and looked up at Ysenda, who had now stepped out far enough into the yard that Hubert could see her. She wore a coil of rope dangling on one arm, like a huge, clumsy bracelet.

‘May I go to collect firewood?’ She’d been trying to keep her tone humble, but Hubert could hear the angry edge.

‘No, damn you, woman. I’ll fetch it.’ Aubrey had stopped turning and kicked the rocker. ‘You can finish cleaning the mail. And do it right. It might lie in the chest for years now, till Hubert is summoned by Osmund Gamyll to fight by his side, as I was by Sir Baldwin.’ They were Sir Baldwin’s tenants, and owed him service when the king summoned him.

Hubert had almost laughed out loud, trying to imagine Sir Baldwin’s son going to battle. In truth he feared and despised Osmund Gamyll and dreaded a time the man would be his lord.

‘I know where the storms have torn at the trees, Aubrey,’ said Ysenda. ‘There is no need for you to quit your work when I can find the wood faster than you could.’

‘I said I’ll gather the wood.’ Aubrey had snatched at the rope.

Ysenda had hurriedly slipped it off her arm before he tugged too hard and had handed it to him.

Hubert hated how his father treated his mother like a prisoner. She had a temper, especially when
she’d been drinking, but she was the mistress of the house and needed to go about her duties. Aubrey did not like her going to Sir Baldwin’s wood for fuel, he did not like her going to market, he did not even like her to go to Mass without him. So she sneaked out more often than not, which was the cause of most of their arguments, though Hubert was certain that had she not gone out they would have argued about there being no food, no drink, no fuel for the fire. Aubrey was a fool to fuss about her going to the wood after he’d been away so long. He must realise she’d been fetching for herself all that time, at least when Hubert was in school.

But at least he would be gone for a time and Hubert could be alone with his mother. Unfortunately, since it was only hours till the early dusk of November he must spend the night there, with his parents. He’d sunk down with his back to the wall to await Aubrey’s departure.

Despite the cold, he must have fallen asleep for a while, for the sun had deserted him and when he’d looked out he’d seen his mother removing the chain mail from the rocker. He must have been very tired to have slept through that noise.

Taking a deep breath, he’d stepped out from the side of the house. ‘Ma!’

Ysenda had turned to him and pressed the chain mail to her breast. ‘What are you doing here, Hubert?’ Her words had been oddly pronounced, and as Hubert reached her he’d seen the cause –
her left cheek was bruised and swollen, obliterating the pretty dimple.

He’d hugged her, then stretched up to gently kiss her injured cheek. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘He’s home,’ she’d said.

‘I know. How long has he been here?’

She’d blown a strand of hair from her eyes, still clutching the chain mail. ‘Perhaps a week.’

‘And he’s already beaten you.’ Hubert had touched his mother’s cheek again, wondering how anyone could want to hurt her.

She’d taken a step backwards, frowning crookedly. ‘Did Master John send you home? Did someone accompany you? Is this what was in the letter? I’d no one to read it to me.’

Her questions and her faraway eyes confused him. ‘You’re not glad to see me?’ he asked.

She must have remembered the mail she had clutched to her, for now she shook it out. ‘Does this look clean to you?’

He dutifully ran a hand down it, trying to discern any flaws in it. The rings felt intact, but that did not mean they were free of dirt and rust. ‘The light’s faded too much to see,’ he said.

She cursed under her breath and tossed the mail back into the rocker. ‘I pray you, work on it a while longer, there’s a good lad.’ She bent to peck him on the cheek, a hand at the small of her back. ‘I
am
glad to see you, son. But I’m worried, as well, with your da being here. And you haven’t answered me. Did Master John discharge you?
What did you do to displease him? I pray it isn’t anything your da won’t like. Did someone escort you?’

‘I came alone, and Master John doesn’t know I’m here. I was worried about you, all alone, with winter coming on.’ He’d hoped she would not ask for details of his journey. He did not wish to worry her.

‘Oh Hubert, as you see I’m not alone. And you were to learn and make something of yourself, not fret about me. What will Master John say?’ She’d pressed a hand to her swollen cheek. ‘I’m a grown woman. It’s not your place to worry about your mother.’ She’d massaged her temples and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll lie down for a little while.’

Hubert had watched her until she disappeared inside, hoping that she’d turn around and say she was glad to see him. But she had not turned, not to say that or to ask how he’d made his way alone from York, or comment on how thin and dirty he was. He had not wanted her to ask about his journey, but it hurt that she had not. He never should have gone away. He had not wanted to. He remembered how angry he’d been when she’d insisted he return to school. He’d gone mad, lashing out at a goose in his anger.

It had been a hot summer afternoon. The geese, ever-vigilant, had watched as Hubert crossed the yard, apparently sensing his mood. They were ready to attack if he showed any interest in moving towards them. He’d ignored them until he’d
moved far enough in the opposite direction for them to lose interest; then he’d turned and, raising his arms above his head as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, he’d charged them, startling all into flight but one stubborn male.

He’d lunged towards the defender, who’d flapped his wings and shot his beak towards Hubert’s leg, almost managing a nip. But Hubert’s energy had been equal to the gander’s and he’d spun away in time. What happened next was what haunted Hubert – again he’d lunged for the gander with a temper so vicious he’d stopped himself just short of wringing the fowl’s neck – he knew he’d intended to do so – and he’d earned a painful bite on the wrist.

Holding his bleeding arm, Hubert had fled to the empty stable and crumpled down onto the hard ground long swept clean of hay, breathing so hard he’d thought he might burst; but in time he’d caught his breath and sat back to suck on his wound until the bleeding slowed. Out in the yard the goose had noisily dared him to try again. Through the chinks in the rotting wall Hubert could see it kicking up dust as it paced and fluttered its wings. He’d been grateful that his mother had gone to Sir Baldwin’s woods to collect firewood and had not witnessed his behaviour.