Also by Candace Robb
The Apothecary Rose
The Lady Chapel
The Nun’s Tale
The King’s Bishop
The Riddle
of St Leonard’s
AN OWEN ARCHER MYSTERY
Candace
Robb
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446439838
www.randomhouse.co.uk
First published in Great Britain 1997
by William Heinemann
an imprint of Reed International Books Ltd
Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London SW3 6RB
and Auckland, Melbourne, Singapore and Toronto
Copyright © 1997 by Candace M. Robb
The author has asserted her moral rights
A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 434 00293 3
Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MAPS
GLOSSARY
PROLOGUE
1 A Reputation at Stake
2 Manqualm
3 Things Fall Apart
4 An Unnatural Mother?
5 An Uneasy Conscience
6 Disturbing Developments
7 A Vow to Heal
8 Julian Taverner
9 The Master’s Cares
10 Alisoun’s Plight
11 The Stones of Sherburne
12 Delirium
13 Bess’s Complaint
14 Complexity
15 A Clash of Wills
16 Unsavoury Characters
17 Alisoun’s Resolve
18 A Riddle
19 Too Many Coincidences
20 Alisoun’s Secret
21 More Than Friendship
22 A Sleuth and a Samaritan
23 A Day of Diplomacy
24 Owen’s Suspicion
25 The Guilt of a Father
26 Tidal Waters
27 Painful Truths
28 Rich as the Master
29 Shattered Plans
30 Jasper’s Despair; Wulfstan’s Request
31 Remorse
32 Honouring the Dead
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
BIBLIOGRAPHY
For Aunt Mae,
who has ever been much more than an aunt to me.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank Lynne Drew and Evan Marshall for nursing me along in the writing of this book during a difficult year. Charles Robb for patient systems support; painstaking work on the map; careful, detailed photography of key sites; and questions that led me deeper into my research. Lynne, Evan, and Victoria Hipps for thorough and thoughtful edits.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Patricia H. Cullum for her extensive work on St Leonard’s Hospital, and her patience with my questions. Jeremy Goldberg, Joe Nigota, Carol Shenton, and the knowledgeable and generous members of Mediev-l, Chaucernet, and H-Albion for responding to my queries with facts and bibliographies. Any mistakes are my own.
Research for this book was conducted on location in York and at the University of York’s Morrell Library, the British Library, and the libraries of the University of Washington, with additional critical materials from the York Archaeological Trust and my colleagues on the internet.
Glossary
almoner
one of the canons, whose work was to give alms (food and drink) at the gate (at St Leonard’s, probably the Water Gate on Footless Lane), and also to go out of the house in order to visit the sick, infirm, blind and bed-ridden of the locality
ambergris
a fragrant waxy secretion of the intestinal tract of the sperm whale, often found floating in the sea, used in medicine for its aroma
Barnhous
the undercroft of St Leonard’s infirmary in which the children were housed
cellarer
the canon in charge of supplies of meats and victuals; at St Leonard’s he was often submaster
corrody
a pension or allowance provided by a religious house permitting the holder to retire into the house as a boarder; purchased for cash or by a donation of land or property
Gog and Magog
biblical reference; Gog and the land of Magog were the enemies of Israel; it was believed that the reign of the Antichrist would be heralded by the return of Gog and Magog
grammar school
a school in which the emphasis was on the Trivium (grammar, rhetoric and dialectic), or the analysis and use of language, preparing the student for university; St Leonard’s operated a grammar school
grandame
grandmother
houppelande
men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open
jongleur
a minstrel who sang, juggled and tumbled
Keeper of the Hanaper
head of the department within Chancery that received fees paid on charters and letters under the great seal, paid the wages of the Chancery staff and bought materials for the office, and accounted for the whole proceeds annually at the exchequer; also received payments of fines by recipients of chancery writs; called the hanaper because the documents waiting to be sealed were kept in a hamper (hanaper)
Lammas
first of August, when the Archbishop of York held an annual fair
lay sister
a woman who takes the habit and vows of a religious order, but is employed mostly in manual labour and is exempt from any studies or choir-duties
leman
mistress
manqualm
an Anglo-Saxon word for plague, pestilence
Martinmas
feast of St Martin, 11 November
mazer
a large wooden cup
messuage
a plot of land occupied by or intended for a dwelling house
Petercorn
income supporting St Leonard’s Hospital, dependent on the harvest (Peter’s corn)
prebend
the portion of the revenues of a cathedral or collegiate church granted to a canon or member of the chapter as his stipend
rood
cross
Queen’s Receiver
officer in the Queen’s household who gathered in revenue which he then disbursed at the Queen’s order in lump sum, paid over to her treasurer; Ravenser had power to act as the Queen’s attorney in any court in England
sext
noon
spital
early English word for hospital, later ‘spitalhouse’ and ‘hospital’
staithe
wharf
strays
common grazing area
sweetwater
a medicinal bath of mallow and sweet-scented herbs
swine gall
exactly what it says; medieval medicine was not without its oddities
trencher
a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter
vespers
the sixth
of the canonical hours, towards sunset
Prologue
York, July 1369
The elderly man took tentative steps out of the door of the infirmary. He favoured his right leg for a few steps, then, when the shooting pains of the day before did not attack his efforts, he tried a bolder gait, letting his right leg swing out. He felt a twinge in the knee, but at his age a twinge was to be expected in any joint. Walter de Hotter crossed the yard from the infirmary to the East Gate once, back, twice, back, then continued out on to Blake Street. It was a happy journey. He was to sleep in his own bed that night. Not that the infirmary bed at St Leonard’s Hospital had been uncomfortable. Or unclean. Truth be told, it was cleaner than his own. But a man’s bed is a special thing, and Walter looked forward to a night in his.
Each time Walter entered the hospital because of an injury he wondered whether he would return to his own bed. His days were numbered, he knew. Three-score and nine he was: a goodly age, a venerable age. And for a clumsy man prone to accidents, a quite remarkable age. It was fortunate that he had married well and improved the business left to him by his father, accumulated several valuable messuages in the city, more property than his children could claim a need for, and had promised the one in which he dwelt to St Leonard’s in return for a corrody. He had made this arrangement after his wife had died; while she had lived she had seen to his injuries, and a commendable job she had done. But without her, Walter had been uneasy. Who would soak his sprained ankles, smooth soothing unguents on his burns, wrap them? His fellows in the merchants’ guild had assured him they would see to him. And so they would have, for the guild took care of its own. But he did not want to be a burden. He was not feeble, merely clumsy. It was Tom Merchet, proprietor of the York Tavern, who had suggested the corrody. Walter would always be grateful to Tom for that. As a corrodian of St Leonard’s Hospital he was given his food, clothing and a bed should he need it – which was the best part for him, for he needed a bed quite often. Not for long. Never for long. But he would break bones and twist ankles, wrists – an elbow recently. The swollen knee had been the latest injury. And he had received all the care from St Leonard’s because, once he was dead, the hospital would have his property to lease and would make a nice sum. To Walter it seemed more than fair.
And he was still alive and ambulatory, praise God, and happy to be headed home. He was going to an empty house, which was not as he would have liked it, but it would not be so for long, God willing. His eldest son and heir to the business had taken his family to their small house in Easingwold, saying he was opening a shop there. Peter was fearful of pestilence, truth be told. And who could blame him? One Sunday, Walter had heard at Mass that a child had died of pestilence the night before, and by the following Sunday five had died within the city walls, one of them a fellow corrodian of St Leonard’s, poor old John Rudby. Walter did not begrudge his son such precautions. Nor, for his part, had Peter protested his father’s trading the townhouse on Blake Street for a corrody.
Evening had settled on the city and the streets were dark, although the sky, visible if one craned one’s neck to peer at it between the buildings, was still blue. Walter picked his way with care, even though he travelled such a familiar route. Filthy streets offered tumbles at every step, and the sisters had warned him that the bandage on his knee would not protect him from a severe twist. But his belly was full and his heart light on this return home. Once more he had lived through a frightening fall. God was merciful.
At the door to his house, Walter fumbled with his key. At last the door swung wide. He stepped into the darkness, pleased to find it not too stuffy. But on second thought it concerned him. Perhaps he had left some windows unshuttered at the back of the house. He had been in much pain when he had gone to the hospital.
As he felt his way across the room, Walter could see the evening light through the chinks in the shutters. He had closed them then. But his relief was short-lived. The door to the garden was ajar, letting silvery evening light spill through. He did not think he could have been quite so careless as to leave that open. Which meant someone might have broken in. Perhaps thinking he had abandoned the house. It was happening all over the city; Peter was not the only one hoping to run faster than the pestilence. Empty houses became repositories for the dying. That frightened Walter. If a plague corpse had poisoned the air in the house, he would soon succumb. He fumbled for the pouch of sweet-smelling herbs that he had purchased at the Wilton apothecary the week before and held it to his nose as he moved forward. But he stumbled over something and dropped the pouch. He groped on the floor, found instead a stool that should not have been there. Thank God he had been moving slowly, though he should have been looking down, not towards the open door. But he thought he had just perceived a movement out there.
An intruder would know of his presence by now – the rattling key, the stool. He would be ready. Walter picked up the stool, crept towards the open door. He had indeed seen movement. There was a man in Walter’s kitchen garden.
‘Here now. What are you about?’
The man spun round, took a few menacing steps towards the door. ‘Who goes there?’
‘I am the one should ask that. I am Walter de Hotter and this is my house, that is my garden, and—’ As Walter raised the stool above his head, he exposed his chest, which was just where the intruder had aimed the knife. ‘Sweet Jesu!’ Walter dropped the stool, clutched his heart, felt the sticky blood pumping out. And then strong hands were round his neck, pressing, pressing …
On the night after Walter de Hotter’s body was found, the York Tavern overflowed with folk hungry for gossip to distract them from their fears. Bess Merchet considered it a mixed blessing.
Old Bede mumbled the oft-repeated numbers. ‘Two corrodians of St Leonard’s dead in three weeks. Both with town messuages going to spital on their deaths. Spital’s in trouble, needs corn and suddenly the canons have rents, don’t they?’
Bess found Bede’s inaccuracy irritating. ‘John Rudby died of pestilence, old man. And poor Walter was ever stumbling over his own feet.’
‘Oh, aye? Poor Walter stumbled on a knife and strangled hisself, eh?’ Old Bede laughed until he collapsed in a coughing fit.
Bess flicked a cloth at him. But in faith he was not the only one talking of it tonight. She did not like such rumours. Her own uncle was a corrodian of St Leonard’s, and his best friend also. Perhaps it would not hurt to say a prayer for them this evening.
One
A Reputation at Stake
With pestilence in the south, most government officials had fled to the country a fortnight before. Nothing of substance would be accomplished in Westminster until the death count returned to a less terrifying level. The poor, the merchants who could not afford to close up shop for a season, and those who served them were left to live in sweltering fear behind shuttered doors or masked against the pestilential air.
There were also some whose duties delayed their flight. As Keeper of the Hanaper and the Queen’s Receiver, Richard de Ravenser was one such, and even he hoped to depart for the north by the week’s end in order to deal with disquieting matters concerning St Leonard’s in York, which had been relayed to him in a letter from one of his canons. Ravenser was master of the great hospital.
Equally unnerving was the summons to London that he had just received from his uncle, John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. It seemed an odd time for his uncle to choose to journey to London when he might have remained secluded and relatively safe at Bishopthorpe. Ravenser did not mind the short ride from Westminster to London, but he wished he knew his uncle’s purpose. Presumably he had arrived recently, for Ravenser had heard nothing of his uncle’s presence in the city. Which meant Thoresby’s business with Ravenser had some urgency. He was to attend Thoresby at his house at sext, which gave him little more time to prepare than it would take to arrange for a horse to be brought round.
Juniper wood burned in a brazier near John Thoresby’s chair. In his hand he he
ld a ball of ambergris. The window to his small garden was closed. And this morning he had forgone the bath for which he yearned. He was determined to survive the pestilence and fulfil his oath to complete the Lady Chapel at York Minster.
Thoresby was in London examining the deeds to his palace at Sherburne so that he could ascertain whether he had the right to tear it down for its stones, with which he might complete the chapel. But this morning a missive had arrived that he must discuss with his nephew, Richard de Ravenser.
It was well for Ravenser that he arrived at the prescribed time. Thoresby already felt impatient with his nephew. What was not so clever was Ravenser’s choice of garb: a costly blue silk houppelande and bright green leggings. The silk would be ruined by the man’s sweat, which Thoresby thought considerable. Remarkable that such a slender man could work up such a lather on the brief ride from Westminster.