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Epub ISBN 9781446440711
Version 1.0

Reprinted in Arrow Books 1998

7 9 10 8 6

Copyright © Candace Robb 1995

Candace Robb has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in Great Britain in 1995 by William Heinemann

Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
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www.randomhouse.co.uk

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Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099427421

Contents

ABOUT THE BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY CANDACE ROBB

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MAP

GLOSSARY

PROLOGUE

1 Lamentations of the Dead

2 To York

3 Lady’s Mantle

4 A Consultation

5 The Watcher

6 Alfred’s Tale

7 Subtle Manoeuvres

8 Family Tensions

9 Lucie Dines at the Palace

10 Our Lady’s Mantle

11 Calvary

12 Witless or Cunning?

13 An Archer, a Poet, a Prince

14 A Pilgrimage of Disgrace

15 Scarborough

16 Near Death

17 Vengeance Interrupted

18 Bartering

19 ‘. . . before Death’s sleep’

20 Homecoming

21 Steadfastness

22 The Scabbard

23 Mary Magdalene

24 Farewells

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

COPYRIGHT

To the people of York, past, present and future.

About the Book

When a young nun dies of a fever in the town of Beverley in the summer of 1365, she is buried quickly for fear of the plague. But one year later a woman appears, talking of relic-trading and miracles. She claims to be the dead nun resurrected. Murder follows swiftly in her wake, and the worried Archbishop of York asks Owen Archer to investigate.

Travelling to Leeds and Scarborough to unearth clues, Owen finds only a trail of corpses, until a meeting with Geoffrey Chaucer, spy for King Edward, links the nun with mercenary soldiers and the powerful Percy family. Meanwhile, in York, the apothecary Lucie Wilton has won the mysterious woman’s confidence. But the troubled secrets which start to emerge will endanger them all . . .

About the Author

Candace Robb studied for a PhD in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. Her novels grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous fourteenth century. She is published in twelve countries and ten languages.

Also by Candace Robb

THE APOTHECARY ROSE
THE LADY CHAPEL
THE KING’S BISHOP
THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S
A GIFT OF SANCTUARY
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
A TRUST BETRAYED

Acknowledgements

I thank Lynne Drew for being an insightful editor with inexhaustible patience and a sense of humour; Jeremy Goldberg and Pat Cullum for fielding questions about everyday life in the fourteenth century; Karen Wuthrich for reading the manuscript with a critical eye; Christie Andersen for a delightfully dramatic reading of the galleys; Charlie Robb for taking on a plethora of supporting jobs, including outline doctor and mapmaker; and Jacqui Weberding for navigating the North.

Additional thanks to the talented professionals who smooth the way: Evan Marshall, Patrick Walsh, Victoria Hipps, Rebecca Salt, Clare Allanson and Joe Myers.

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Glossary

bedstraw

a plant of the genus Galium

corody

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

fulling mill

a mill that cleanses, shrinks and thickens (fulls) cloth by means of water and pestles or stampers

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

Lady Chapel

a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church

leman

mistress

liberty

an area of the city not subject to royal administration; for example, the Liberty of St Peter is the area surrounding the minster which comes under the archbishop’s jurisdiction

mazer

a large wooden cup

minster

a large church or cathedral; the cathedral of St Peter in York is referred to as York Minster

nones

the fifth of the seven canonical hours, or the ninth hour after sunrise

pandemain

the finest quality white bread, made from flour sifted two or three times

Petercorn

income supporting St Leonard’s hospital, dependent on the harvest (Peter’s corn)

prime

the first of the seven canonical hours, or sunrise

routiers

see Author’s Note

sext

noon

solar

private room on upper level of house

trencher

a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter

Prologue

June 1365

Joanna hoisted her pack and trudged through North Bar, entering Beverley as the bells of the great Church of St John rang out. She had been walking since sunrise; the sun was now overhead and the coarse weave of her habit chafed at her clammy skin. The city’s streets curved snakelike along the Beck and Walkerbeck, and as she walked Joanna glimpsed the fast-flowing streams through the houses. She imagined shedding her clothes and sinking into the cool, rushing water as she and her brother Hugh had done as children in the river near their house.

It was a damp, cloying heat. Though this day was sunny and hot, it had been a summer of torrential rains and the dirt streets were waterlogged. Where the sun shone down between the houses, steam rose up, creating a fog that blurred Joanna’s vision. She found the dreamlike effect disorienting. The houses shimmered; lines dipped and spun. She clutched her Mary Magdalene medal and whispered prayers as she walked.

Laughter and the merry sound of singing tempted her as she passed a tavern. She yearned to enter and wash down the road’s dust with strong ale, but she must not call attention to herself in such a way, a nun travelling alone.

Not far past the tavern she spied a churchyard with a shaded well. Surely this was a safe refuge. Joanna slipped through the open gate and set her pack down under a shading oak that thrust a root up through the mud. Glancing round to check that she was unwatched, she shed her veil, her wimple, her gorget, folding them neatly on her pack, then unclasped the Mary Magdalene medal and set it on top. She drew a bucket of cool water, cupped her hands to drink, then splashed her face, head and neck.

A sound made her turn. A boy in tattered clothes held the medal and chain in the air above Joanna’s pack. Joanna shouted. The little thief went running.

Damnable cur! Grabbing up her skirts, Joanna took off after the thief. ‘Give me the medal, you Devil’s spawn. A curse on your mother and all your kin!’ She threw herself at the boy, tackling him to the ground. He kicked her in the face and wriggled out of her grasp, throwing the chain at her as he took off.

Pushing herself up onto her knees, her habit now heavy with mud, Joanna crawled awkwardly over to the silvery treasure. Sweet Heaven, no! She found an empty chain, no medal. Her heart pounding, she crawled round in the mud and weeds, searching for her precious Magdalene medal. Her brother Hugh had given it to her on another journey to Beverley six years before, and Joanna treasured the medal. It was all she had from her beloved brother. And the cur had taken it. Tears of anger and frustration blinded her. She gave herself up to weeping.

‘My child, what troubles you?’ A priest stood over Joanna, his expression one of curious concern.

Her hand went to her bare head. ‘Benedicte, Father.’

‘What has happened here, my child?’

‘I have been travelling since dawn and your well tempted me. I thought you would not begrudge me water.’ She smiled into his kind eyes.

‘Of course you are welcome to drink. I see that you wear the habit of a Benedictine. Where are your companions? Surely you do not travel alone.’

Joanna scrambled to her feet. ‘I strayed from my companions. I must hurry to catch them.’ She could not allow him to accompany her or she would be discovered.

He gestured toward her wet, soiled skirt. ‘Why were you sitting in the mud?’

She glanced down at her habit, dismayed. She tried to brush off the mud, but succeeded only in smearing it. ‘’Twas nothing, Father. God bless you.’ She fumbled for her head coverings.

‘Perhaps you should come within to dry off. If you tell me where your companions are headed, I could send someone after them with news of you.’

Joanna picked up her pack. ‘No need, Father. Thank you for the water. God go with you.’ She fled through the gate and on down the street, taking no notice of her surroundings, reprimanding herself for such stupidity. A wall suddenly stopped her, and she stared round, confused. Sweet Jesu, she had lost her way. She fought back tears, weary, frustrated, frightened. The medal was lost, there was nothing to protect her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her panic. She must find her way. She must reach Will Longford’s house before dark.

Slowly she groped her way back to North Bar and began again. It was now mid-afternoon and clouds gathered overhead, deepening the gloom of the narrow streets. The air had grown heavy, pressing on Joanna’s chest. Her head pounded. It felt as if she had been walking for an eternity. At last the heavens opened, but instead of a refreshing shower the rain thundered down, turning the streets to rivers of mud. Joanna would not allow herself to stop and take shelter. She must not leave a trail. Her habit clung to her. Her veil slapped against her face. She fought for each step, pulling her feet out of the sucking mud. She wept for her lost medal, but trudged on. She had not come so far to be drowned by a summer storm.

At last, as the rain turned to a gentle shower, Joanna recognised the way. Round a corner, and there. The house with the whitewashed door. Will Longford’s house.

A skinny serving girl answered, stared at Joanna’s bedraggled clothes. ‘Surely you’ve taken the wrong turning, Sister. This be no place for nuns.’

Joanna tried to adjust her sagging wimple and veil. ‘I would speak with Master Longford. I’ve business with him.’

The girl scratched her cheek with a chapped hand. ‘Business? I warn you, there’s but one sort of business the master has with women, and afternoon’s not the time for it. Nor does he endanger his immortal soul with brides of Christ.’ She glanced behind her nervously.

Joanna reached out and grabbed the girl’s apron, pulling her forward. The look of shock on the girl’s face was rewarding. ‘Tell your master that I’ve a treasure to trade.’

The girl nodded. ‘I meant only to warn you.’

Joanna let her go.

‘What name shall I give the master?’

‘Dame Joanna Calverley of Leeds.’

The girl scuttled away.

Shortly, the doorway darkened. Will Longford was a huge, hirsute man, his coarse black hair now streaked with white, his scarred jaw covered by a white beard – he had aged in six years. He wore a chemise that brushed the ground, but Joanna knew what it hid: a wooden peg that had replaced his left leg. Arms folded across his chest, Longford leaned against the doorjamb, formidable even when one knew he was crippled.

‘You are a Calverley? From Leeds?’ He did not so much speak as growl. His dark eyes glittered with hostility.

‘I accompanied my brother Hugh when he sold you the arm of St Sebastian six years back.’

The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. The little sister.’ Longford scratched his beard and studied her face. ‘St Sebastian. His arm, you say?’ He grinned. ‘Have you come to offer me more of Sebastian? His other arm, perhaps?’

Joanna stood up straighter. She did not like the emphasis on little sister, or the nasty grin. ‘I offer you something more sacred still. The milk of the Virgin. From St Clement’s in York.’

‘The milk of – God’s blood, what’s the bastard up to?’ Longford looked her up and down. ‘You are a nun of St Clement’s?’

‘I am. This has naught to do with Hugh.’

Longford stepped forward, peered up and down the street. ‘Your kind are wont to travel in groups. How do you come to be alone?’

Joanna’s knees knocked together from cold and weariness. ‘Might I come within and get dry by your fire?’

Longford grunted and stood aside. ‘Come within before the Lord God drowns you.’

He closed the door behind her. ‘How fares your brother Hugh?’

‘I have had no news of him in six years. But I hope to find him.’

‘Ah.’ Longford scratched his beard again. ‘I remember something about you. What was it? You were off to learn housewifery from your aunt. You were betrothed then.’ He touched her veil. ‘I thought your betrothed was a mortal husband, not our Lord God.’

Joanna stepped backwards, discomfited by the man’s nearness. ‘I changed my mind.’

‘Hm. I reckon you do not represent St Clement’s in offering this relic. You’ve had another change of mind, eh?’

Joanna hesitated. It seemed too soon to come to this point. But she had little choice. ‘I have stolen the relic. I need funds to travel. I mean to find my brother Hugh.’

Longford raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you now?’

He gestured for her to sit by the fire. ‘Wine, Maddy,’ he yelled. He sat back and nodded at Joanna’s muddy habit. ‘You’ll never get warm in those damp clothes. Maddy will loan you something dry.’ He grinned at her.

Joanna thanked him. But his grin did not have a comforting effect.

It had been a year of deluges, and August was no drier. John Thoresby stared gloomily out of the window at the muddy Ouse rushing along the lower garden, the heavy rain pommelling the flowers so that they floated limply in the water pooling in the beds. Of the palaces that had come to Thoresby as Archbishop of York, Bishopthorpe was his favourite. But this summer it was more ark than palace; the roof leaked in almost every room and the water level had risen to threaten the undercroft. Thoresby had rushed back to Bishopthorpe to preside over the Lammas Fair, looking forward to a rest from the endless politics of the royal wedding which had kept him at Windsor. He had been anxious to doff his Lord Chancellor’s chain for a few months, get back to the business of God. But the rain had done its best to ruin the fair and he felt imprisoned in this great, leaking palace . . . and no one had good news for him, including the two men sitting by the fire.

One was his nephew, Richard de Ravenser, provost of Beverley Minster. Prominent bones, deep-set eyes, strong chin, a face that might be handsome with more flesh. It was as if Thoresby gazed at his own reflection with years erased. Did his sister look so like him? Or had she stared at him too intently when she carried Richard?

Ravenser’s news was an administrative headache. A nun of St Clement’s, York, had run away and the prioress had not reported the incident. An irresponsible prioress could cause continuous problems.

Across from Thoresby’s mirror image sat a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with a patch over his left eye. Owen Archer had spent July searching for the murderers of a mercer whose body had been found in the minster liberty. He reported no luck – discouraging news, because if Archer could not find the guilty parties, they would not be found.

But Ravenser and Archer were not to blame for their news. Thoresby resolved to put aside his gloom as best he could. ‘Come, gentlemen, it is time to join the other guests for dinner.’

Owen gave Thoresby a questioning look. ‘You are certain you wish me to dine with your friends, Your Grace?’

Thoresby sniffed. ‘Not friends, Archer. We travelled together from Windsor. Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham are canons of Beverley, returning with Richard to satisfy their terms of residency. I could hardly refuse them hospitality when their provost is my nephew.’

Ravenser bowed to his uncle. ‘I am grateful for this, Your Grace. I know that Wykeham is hardly a welcome guest in your house.’

Thoresby lifted his Lord Chancellor’s chain and let it drop against his chest. ‘The man who seeks to relieve me of this weight? Perhaps I should thank him for it. But I confess I smile at him with my teeth clenched. I have got the habit of power.’

Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham stood near the hearth in the great hall, warming their feet by the fire, their insides with wine. Both men lived mostly at court, Nicholas de Louth as a clerk in the service of Prince Edward, William of Wykeham as Keeper of the Privy Seal and King Edward’s chief architect. Louth, a fleshy man, elegantly dressed, chatted amiably with Wykeham. The latter did not call attention to his appearance, but dressed soberly, in shades of grey and brown, and had no marks of distinction save his unusual height. He was soft-spoken, with an earnest intentness about his eyes that might pass for intelligence.

As the five settled at the table, Thoresby spoke. ‘Forgive me if I seem distracted this evening, gentlemen. I have just learned that a nun from St Clement’s Priory in York has died of a fever in Beverley, a nun who had no permission to travel. She disappeared on St Etheldreda’s feast day.’ He watched Louth and Wykeham tally up the days from 23 June. ‘She had been missing more than a month when she died, and the Reverend Mother had not reported her disappearance, nay, had excused Dame Joanna’s absence with a story of illness, a convalescence at home.’

‘She was ill when she fled, then?’ Wykeham asked.

‘No. Though she apparently had a pallor that might be mistaken for illness from fasting and praying through the spring.’

‘Ah. Lovesickness.’ Louth said. He smiled into his wine.

‘On the contrary,’ Thoresby said. ‘Dame Isobel claimed the nun was the sort of young woman who believes that excesses of devotion bring her closer to God.’

The company grew quiet while servants laid out the fish course. As they withdrew, Ravenser shook his head. ‘A serious discrepancy in the story, Your Grace. A devoted nun does not run away.’

‘Where in Beverley?’ Louth asked, obviously caught up in his own thoughts.

Thoresby nodded to his nephew to continue the tale.

‘A man kindly took her in when she collapsed in the street outside his house. She sank into a fever and died. The vicar of St Mary’s Church agreed to bury her at once, fearful she might poison the air.’ Ravenser shook his head, sipped his wine. ‘But the priest wished me to inform His Grace and ask whether the family would want her body brought home to Leeds or whether the convent wished to claim her remains.’

‘Beverley needs occasional excitement to wake it up,’ Louth said with a cheerful grin. He chewed contentedly, his eyes half-closed, a man who enjoyed food and wine, particularly such excellent fare as was served in Thoresby’s household. ‘Who was the kind soul who took her in?’

‘Will Longford.’

Louth leaned forward, suddenly wide awake. ‘Longford? A one-legged bear of a man?’ He dabbed the grease from his chin.

Ravenser shrugged. ‘I have not had the honour of meeting him.’

Thoresby was interested. ‘You know him, Sir Nicholas?’

‘I have had occasion to question Longford for the Prince,’ Louth said. ‘He fought in the Free Companies under du Guesclin.’

‘A peculiar good Samaritan.’ Owen said. ‘I wonder what inspired such a man to tend a sick nun?’

Thoresby found that curious indeed. The Free Companies were bands of renegade soldiers with no national allegiance – though most were abandoned English soldiers – who terrorised the French countryside and then extorted protection money from the frightened people. A most unlikely source of charity.

Louth lifted an eyebrow. ‘An odd sympathy from a man who has most likely raped and killed nuns across the Channel.’

Ravenser nodded. ‘I daresay she was a piteous sight.’ His posture toward Louth indicated an impatience with the man’s behaviour. Thoresby knew his nephew thought Louth a glutton and a fool.

Wykeham sat pensively holding a piece of bread in mid-air. Thoresby wondered what he was thinking. Sensing the archbishop’s eyes on him, Wykeham turned to his host. ‘What drew her to Beverley?’

Thoresby gave a fleeting smile. ‘An excellent question to which I have no answer.’

‘An unfortunate story.’

‘Perhaps her family can enlighten us,’ Louth suggested. ‘What was her name?’

‘Joanna Calverley,’ Thoresby said. ‘I have asked Dame Isobel de Percy to inform her family. Perhaps she will learn something more.’

‘Of Leeds, you said?’ Louth asked.

Ravenser nodded.

‘It is curious,’ Louth frowned. ‘Why did she flee to Beverley, not Leeds?’

‘Why indeed.’ Thoresby sipped his wine. There was more to this than a runaway nun. He felt it in his bones. While the others went on to more amiable topics through the two meat courses, he brooded.

As the servants cleared and brought out the brandywine, Thoresby returned to the subject. ‘Why is the Prince interested in Longford, Sir Nicholas?’

Louth tapped his fingers on his cup and looked around at the company, weighing how much to say. ‘Now that du Guesclin is a captain in the service of King Charles of France, Prince Edward would like to know all he can about a man he will inevitably face in battle.’

‘And was Longford helpful?’ Ravenser asked.

Louth laughed. ‘Helpful? You would not ask had you ever met him. A slippery man, Will Longford. Much to hide. Oh, he told us a few things, but nothing to compromise du Guesclin.’

Owen leaned forward, his good eye turned to study Louth. ‘So it was not just information you wanted.’

Louth squirmed under the hawk-like regard. ‘No. I have the house watched.’

Wykeham was interested. ‘What do you think he does for du Guesclin?’

Louth shrugged. ‘I have proof of nothing. But men who might fight for our King have been taking ship to the continent to join the Free Companies.’

‘Thus weakening us.’ Thoresby nodded. ‘So you watch Longford’s house, and yet no one reported the arrival of a solitary nun.’

Louth sighed. ‘I know. What else have my men missed, you wonder. So do I.’

Wykeham noticed Thoresby’s brooding expression. ‘You think there is more to this nun’s death than an unhappy runaway struck down with fever?’

Thoresby met the eyes of the man who was positioning himself to take over as Lord Chancellor. Perhaps they were intelligent eyes. He shrugged.

‘A nun runs away to a lover. ’Tis always the story,’ Louth said, pouring more brandywine, though his face was flushed by what he had already imbibed. ‘Think no more of it.’

Thoresby closed his eyes, weary of idle speculation. He would like to know more about the dead nun, yet what would be the gain? She was dead, buried. He tapped his fingers impatiently in time with the steady plop of a new leak behind him, near the window. Perhaps the ominous ache in his bones was just the rain and his too many years of living.

One

Lamentations of the Dead

Late May 1366

Nicholas de Louth dropped his work and hurried out to the hall to greet Maddy, Will Longford’s servant. Surely she would not have come to Louth’s house unless she had received word of her master.

Longford had disappeared in March, slipped away in the night. When a few days had passed with no signs of activity in and round the house, Louth had had his men break in. They had found not a soul, not even the servant, Maddy. She had been discovered at her parents’ house, complaining of her abandonment. She had said that one evening Longford had told her to leave, that he and his man Jaro were going away. ‘With no more notice than that. He might have told me sooner. I might have arranged for work. I’ve no wages now.’ Longford had said he would come for her when he returned. ‘He left that night. I’ve heard nothing since.’

A search had revealed that someone had gone through Longford’s house before Louth’s men, scattering things everywhere. They had found more than a dozen daggers, several swords of French make, one of Italian, and – the prize – a letter with Bertrand du Guesclin’s seal acknowledging monies owed Longford. It was not proof of treason, not even signed, but it was a link with du Guesclin, however ambiguous. Louth would be less gentle in questioning Longford next time. They had also found some puzzling items, including a bottle of Italian glass that held a white powder. Maddy had recognised it. She’d said that the nun who had died at Longford’s the previous summer had brought it with her, offering it to Longford as a relic. Louth had taken it home with the weapons and the letter.

A generously hefty bag of coins had convinced Maddy to stay at the house. She was to alert them if Longford returned or anyone else appeared.

Had Maddy come to Louth to report visitors this morning?

He found her sitting in a chair by the fire, a thin young woman clutching a mazer of mulled wine in trembling hands. When he greeted her, she lifted up to him eyes red-rimmed and frightened. ‘I cannot go back there, Sir. I dare not!’

‘What is it, Maddy? Has your master returned?’

She shook her head. ‘’Tis the ghost of poor Dame Joanna. She’s come back for the milk of the Virgin. Weeping and wailing and beating her chest and praying that she should die. She’s not at rest, Sir.’

Louth did not absorb Maddy’s story at once, so far was it from what he had expected. ‘Dame Joanna? What can you mean, child?’

Maddy took a gulp of wine. It did not ease her tremors. ‘Please, Sir. ’Tis just as they say, the dead walk when they are not at peace. ’Tis Dame Joanna – she’s come back because of the relic. She must have the bottle she brought to my master.’

By now Louth had caught the drift of the girl’s story. ‘Dame Joanna, whom your master buried last summer? She has returned? She is at the house now?’

Maddy crossed herself and nodded. ‘I came to you straight away. I’d come in from the kitchen to open the shutters. I do it mid-morning every day, to keep it fresh in there in case the master returns. There she was, in the corner by the shelves, wrapped in a blue shawl, whispering about the milk of the Virgin. Such a ghostly voice. Like angels’ wings aflutter. And when she’d searched all the shelves she fell to her knees and wept and beat at her breast. Oh, Sir, the lamentations of the dead are not for us to hear unless we may help them! You must return the bottle!’

Louth was not one to believe in the dead walking, but until now Maddy had seemed to him a sensible and trustworthy young woman, not one to lose her head. ‘You think this apparition seeks the relic Dame Joanna brought from St Clement’s?’

Maddy nodded and took another gulp of wine.

‘Was she in the house when you left?’

Maddy nodded again and crossed herself.

It was not what Louth had hoped. Nor did he believe that the dead would walk for the sake of a lost relic. Men with far more reason to lie unquiet in their graves stayed put. But Maddy had stuck to her post until this moment, and she deserved his attention. Could this be a clever ruse to get Maddy out of the house? After more than a month of close watch, had someone fooled them to get inside? The thought propelled Louth to act.

He called for his squire and instructed a servant to hurry to the provost’s house to ask him to come to Longford’s. ‘Sir Richard might be at Mass at the minster. Do your best to get him as quickly as you can.’ Louth turned to the serving girl. ‘Now, Maddy, do you wish to come or stay here where it is safe and warm?’

Maddy glanced at the fire with longing, but shook her head. ‘’Tis my place to come, Sir. And I must see for myself what you see. I will not rest if I am not sure what happens.’

Louth admired her pluck. ‘Then come along. We must not keep her waiting.’

Though it was beyond mid-morning on a sunny day, the light was dim inside Longford’s house. Louth heard the woman, alternately weeping and whispering, before he made out her form in the shadowy corner. He could not understand what she said. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he noted that the windows across the room from the apparition were still shuttered. He motioned for his squire to open them. The apparition threw up a slender hand to protect her eyes from the light. A decidedly physical gesture, Louth thought. He doubted that a spirit’s eyes would be sensitive to light.

Louth crept up to within a few feet of the blue-draped figure, so close that he could reach out and touch her head. He could see little more than a light-blue mantle or shawl, stained and torn, wrapped about a slender form. The hand held up to the face was dirty. The figure had a strong, mouldy scent, but it was the odour of unwashed flesh and clothing, not decay. So, Louth reasoned, neither a spirit nor a corpse.

‘Who are you, Mistress?’ He spoke in a gentle tone, but loudly enough to be heard over her whispering.

She pounded her chest thrice and murmured, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ then sobbed and crumpled to the floor. Louth did not know what to make of it. He was relieved when Ravenser slipped quietly in the front door and joined him. The provost crouched by the inert figure, sniffed, rose quickly, putting a handkerchief to his nose. ‘Who is she?’ he whispered.

Louth shrugged. ‘I know not. But she is a fleshly apparition, I think.’ He knelt down and gently pulled the mantle back, uncovering greasy, matted hair. The woman seemed unconscious. Louth cautiously turned her over and touched the delicate, tear-stained face. ‘Come, Maddy,’ Louth called softly. ‘She is warm to the touch, a living being. Tell us if this is Dame Joanna.’

Maddy tiptoed forward, a hand stretched out in front as if to protect herself from a sudden attack. When she was still too far away to see the woman’s features in the dim light, she said, ‘She was not so thin as that, Sir.’

‘Come closer. I have touched her and have not suffered.’ Louth reached back to Maddy. ‘Come. Tell us if it is she.’

Maddy crept close, then recoiled.

Louth nodded. ‘It is the smell of unwashed body, unwashed clothes, Maddy, not decay. Come. Look at her face. Is this Dame Joanna?’ The woman lay still, her eyes closed.

Maddy leaned close, then jumped away, nodding. ‘’Tis her.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘As much as I can be. If I saw the colour of her eyes, I should be certain. I have never seen the like. Clear green, if you can imagine.’

Louth sat back on his heels, wondering how to proceed. ‘Is there a fire in the kitchen, Maddy?’

‘Aye, Sir.’

Louth’s squire, John, crouched down beside him. ‘Shall I carry her there?’

Louth nodded.

John scooped up the woman and stood. Maddy hurried before him, leading the way to the kitchen. Louth pulled two benches together near the fire and John gently laid down his burden. The woman stirred, eyelids fluttering.

‘Some brandywine, Maddy!’ Louth called.

The serving girl brought a cup. As Louth lifted the woman’s head, he noted that her hair was pale red. He was more and more confident that this was Dame Joanna. He put the cup to the woman’s mouth and whispered, ‘Drink slowly.’ Some of the wine spilled down her chin. A hand fluttered up to the cup, touched it. The lips parted. She drank, then coughed. Louth helped her sit up. Her eyes opened, but did not focus. Clear green eyes stared out into the distance.

Maddy nodded. ‘You see the eyes. ’Tis her.’

Louth held the cup to Dame Joanna’s lips and she drank again, then pushed it away. ‘Can you understand me, Dame Joanna?’ The green eyes glanced at Louth with no expression. He was uncertain whether she even saw him. ‘You are in Will Longford’s house in Beverley. Can you tell us what happened to you?’

The pale brows came together in a frown. Then the eyes cleared and focused on his. She grabbed his shoulder. ‘The milk of the Virgin. Is it here?’

‘It is close by.’

‘I must return it.’

‘You must return it to St Clement’s?’ Louth asked.

‘I wear Our Lady’s mantle, you see.’ She clutched the blue shawl to her. ‘I have risen from the dead – as did Our Lady. But it should not have happened so. I am a Magdalene. Our Lady said I must return to die.’

‘Our Lady told you that?’

The eyes opened wide, guileless, innocent. ‘The Blessed Virgin Mary is watching over me.’

Louth glanced at the provost, back to the nun. ‘You had a vision?’

The eyes filled with tears, the head drooped backward against Louth’s arm. ‘I must return,’ she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

‘Dame Joanna?’ Louth whispered.

Joanna muttered something incoherent.

Louth lay her back down on the benches, looked up at Ravenser. ‘What do you think?’

Ravenser frowned down at the nun, pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘I do not like such things – Our Lady’s mantle . . . Rising from the dead . . .’

They both gazed down at the woman, dirty, ravaged by hunger.

‘She is lovely, even in this condition,’ Louth said with a sigh.

Ravenser glanced up, surprised by the comment. ‘A peculiar thing to be thinking.’

Louth shrugged. ‘She touches something in me. Her delicacy. Her desperation.’ He shook himself and stood up straight.

‘We shall take her to Nunburton Abbey,’ Ravenser said. ‘There she can be tended and watched.’

Maddy looked from one to the other. ‘She is truly alive?’

Ravenser smiled. ‘Yes, Maddy, truly alive. Now tell me, did you actually see her dead?’

Maddy thought, shook her head.

‘But you prepared her for burial?’

‘No. I was at market. I came back and she was wrapped in a shroud.’

Ravenser glanced at Louth, then back to Maddy. ‘Dame Joanna died while you were out?’

Maddy stared down at her feet, tears welling in her eyes. ‘It was so sad. I wouldn’t’ve gone if I’d seen she was worsening.’

Louth did not like this new information. ‘You thought she was improving?’

Maddy nodded. ‘She’d been up and dining with them.’

‘Longford and Jaro?’

Maddy nodded. ‘And their two visitors.’

Visitors. All this time Maddy had mentioned only Will Longford and his man Jaro. But then Louth had been interested only in Longford. ‘I will send for you tomorrow, Maddy. You must tell me everything you remember about Dame Joanna’s days in this house.’

‘But who’s to watch the house while I’m gone, Sir?’

‘I will set a watch, Maddy. I am more anxious than ever to find your master.’

Richard de Ravenser left Dame Joanna, still in a faint, in the competent hands of his housekeeper and rode out to the Abbey of Nunburton. The abbess returned with him and took charge of Joanna. It occurred to Ravenser as he watched the litter and escort depart that he should write to his uncle, the archbishop, who had shown an interest in the nun’s story last summer. But what could Ravenser report? Perhaps he should wait until he and Louth had talked to Maddy again.

Maddy did not like being alone in the house. She had heard Dame Joanna say she had risen from the dead, no matter that Sir Nicholas said it was untrue. Maddy knew the stench of the grave – its odour lingered in the rooms. And the way Dame Joanna had wept – that was not a holy vision. More like the dead returning to haunt the living.

Maddy distracted herself with fantasies about John, Sir Nicholas’s squire. So courteous and handsome, so richly dressed. Maddy imagined lying in John’s arms, close to his heart, as Dame Joanna had. John had shown such tender concern for Joanna, cradling her gently in his arms. Oh, that it had been Maddy! She went to market for a blue mantle, found a large shawl that sufficed. Back at the house, she draped the blue shawl round her and danced about the hall. In her imagination John came in, found her a breathtaking vision. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her up to the master’s bedchamber.

At sunset, Maddy’s dance was interrupted by the creak of the hall door. She had not yet latched it for the night, nor had she fastened the shutters. The grey twilight was the only illumination in the hall. She held her breath, listening. She heard nothing more, but she sensed someone in the shadows.

‘Who is there?’

No answer, but now she could hear breathing, quick and excited.

‘This is Master Longford’s house.’ Maddy tried to sound stern. ‘You cannot just walk in off the street.’

The intruder laughed, a sharp cackle of a laugh that echoed weirdly in the darkening hall.

Maddy crept towards the door that led out to the kitchen. She could run into the street if she could only get there first. Her way brought her into the silvery light from one of the open windows. She pulled the shawl tighter and hurried.

Someone grabbed at the shawl, pulled her backwards. Maddy screamed, fumbled with the knot she’d made to fasten the shawl beneath her chin. An arm squeezed her waist. ‘So slender,’ a voice hissed in her ear. The man stank of onions and sweat. This was nothing like Maddy’s imaginings. She gave up on the knot, tried to pull free of his grasp. His other arm came round her neck, then eased, feeling the knot. He yanked the shawl down off her head, twisted it so the knot pressed into her throat. Her screams were choked into desperate coughs. Maddy’s eyes hurt from the pressure in her head. She could not breathe. Her legs gave out. The knot pressed in, tighter, tighter. Sweet Jesu, it had been but an innocent fantasy . . .

Louth showed Sir Thomas, the vicar of St Mary’s, into his parlour. He hoped to learn more about the events surrounding Dame Joanna’s time in Beverley. The priest seemed a likely informant, having given Joanna the last rites and buried her; but past experience with Sir Thomas prepared Louth for a difficult time. The man was devoted to his own self-preservation, nothing more.

‘Longford’s servant mentioned two visitors, Sir Thomas. Did Longford have any companions other than Jaro at Dame Joanna’s grave?’

The priest frowned down at his muddy boots. ‘Two men.’ He raised his dull eyes to Louth. ‘Yes. I remember them.’

‘Had you ever seen them before?’

The priest shook his head.

‘Describe them to me.’

‘I am afraid I can be of little help.’ Sir Thomas mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief. ‘My eyes have failed me of late.’

Louth thought the blank stare bespoke a slothful nature rather than failing eyesight. Would he not squint more in an effort to focus? Louth sighed. He had a critical, uncharitable streak for which he continually did penance. ‘Tell me what you can, Sir Thomas. Anything will be most appreciated.’

The priest’s face contorted in a childish fashion as he bit the inside of his mouth. Louth averted his eyes.

‘Longford is a dangerous man, Sir Nicholas. Much feared in Beverley.’

‘All I ask is that you tell me what you recall,’ Louth said with increasing impatience.

The priest mopped his forehead again as he glanced round the room. ‘One was tall, fair-haired. He spoke like a foreigner. A Dane. Perhaps a Norseman. The other was of average height, sturdy build but not overly muscular. Thinning hair. Gentle spoken.’

‘Were they referred to by name in your presence?’

Sir Thomas shook his head. Too quickly for Louth’s taste. The other questions had not been answered with such speed.

‘You gave Dame Joanna the last rites. Did you believe she was dead?’

‘Oh no. No. Longford said she was dying. And she did seem weak and pale. Her hands were cold, her forehead, too, as I recall.’

‘You buried her in haste. Why was that?’

The priest squirmed under the intent regard. ‘It was to be temporary, until her family came for her. We worried it might be plague, you see.’

‘Who suggested plague?’

The priest chewed the inside of his mouth and thought. ‘Jaro. ’Twas he suggested it. Said the body stank of plague and he would not have her in his kitchen. You cannot know how I prayed over it.’

Louth had no trouble believing that the priest had prayed – but for his own health, not for guidance.

‘Has there been any . . . disturbance – around her grave?’

The priest looked nervous. ‘What sort of disturbance?’

Louth pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes, calming himself. ‘Does the grave look as if it has been untouched since the so-called funeral of Dame Joanna?’

Sir Thomas took a deep breath. ‘I tell no tales, but since I heard of her return, I went to look, and, I must say, something has been at the grave in the past year. Though not so recently as Dame Joanna’s resurrection. Then again, would a body disturb the earth as it rose from the grave? Seems to me –’

‘She did not rise from the dead,’ Louth said sternly.

‘No. No, of course not.’ The priest blotted his forehead.

‘Did Dame Joanna wear a blue mantle when you attended her?’

‘Our Lady’s mantle? Alas, no. I did not have the good fortune to touch it.’

Louth sighed. ‘Yes. Thank you, Sir Thomas.’ He rose with the priest, escorted him out and called for his squire. ‘Come, John, let us visit little Maddy and ask her about the two men.’

John knocked on the whitewashed door of Longford’s house. It swung open. He glanced back at Louth, puzzled. Louth nodded. They drew their daggers. John stepped inside and Louth followed. The afternoon sun poured through the unshuttered windows, illuminating overturned chairs and benches. An oil lamp lay on the floor next to a scorched chair. The house was silent but for a bird that took fright at their entrance.

‘Maddy?’ Louth whispered. He cleared his throat, repeated her name loudly. No answer. He moved slowly toward the door that led to the kitchen, stepped through, stopped with a sense of dread at the bloodstains in the courtyard, an uneven trail that connected the hall with the kitchen. He opened the kitchen door. ‘Sweet Heaven.’ Cooking pots lay scattered on the stone floor; the remains of a stew coagulated in a pot over the pale embers of the cooking fire; wine pooled on a trestle table, dripped onto the floor. ‘Maddy?’ A curtain was drawn across an alcove. Probably Jaro’s pallet. John reached it first, pulled back the curtain, turned away with a strangled cry.

Louth crossed himself and joined his squire. Maddy lay on the wide pallet, coins on her eyes, her hands folded neatly on her breast, fully clothed, draped in a blue shawl. But the swollen face, split lip, the blood on her skirt and hands, and most of all the ugly dark bruise on her throat made it plain that Maddy’s death had not been peaceful, much as someone had carefully arranged her afterwards. Poor little Maddy. Louth fell to his knees and wept.

Louth’s round, usually ruddy face was pale the next morning, his eyes shadowed. Ravenser invited him out into his garden, where the sun might draw the chill of death from his bones.

‘What have they done with Maddy’s body?’ Louth asked.

‘I have claimed it. The bailiff and the coroner will deliver her to me.’

Louth leaned forward to touch Ravenser’s hand. ‘God bless you, Richard. Pray, let me bear the expense of her burial.’

Ravenser withdrew his hand, discomfited by the canon’s emotion. ‘Why should you bear the expense?’

‘In Heaven’s name, it is my fault that she is dead. What was I thinking to leave her there alone?’

Ravenser bowed his head to hide his agreement. ‘Did you notice the blue shawl, how like Dame Joanna’s it is?’ Best to engage Louth in searching for answers. The peacock would have made note of the bright shawl.

‘The blue shawl.’ Louth nodded. ‘Yes, I did see it.’

‘I wonder why she wore it? The day was warm.’

‘It must have happened at night.’

‘Yet she was fully dressed.’

Louth raised a dimpled hand to dab at his eyes. ‘I shall never forgive myself. Maddy looked to me for protection while Longford was away. He may be a mercenary, and all the unsavoury things they say of him may be true, but Maddy was safe under his care.’

‘You do not think it might have been Longford who killed her?’

‘What?’ Louth looked puzzled.

‘Might he have walked in, thought she was Dame Joanna in that blue shawl?’

Sweat beaded on Louth’s fleshy face as he considered it.

Ravenser did not like the heavy man’s pallor, his shallow breathing. ‘But now that I think of it, we do not know whether Joanna had that mantle when she was here with Longford.’

Louth blinked rapidly. ‘Of course. It need not have been Longford. Perhaps someone else mistook her for Joanna Calverley. Or perhaps – do you suppose they wrapped the shawl round Maddy as a warning?’

The possibility made Ravenser uneasy. He wanted a simple solution, involving as few people as possible. ‘We have no proof of it, Nicholas.’

Louth sighed, dabbed at his upper lip. ‘Has the abbess learned anything from Dame Joanna?’

A safer topic. ‘She says the nun speaks dizzying nonsense.’ Ravenser stood up. ‘I see no choice but to open the grave they dug with such haste to see whether it reveals aught.’

Louth crossed himself. ‘You do not mean to bury Maddy there?’

Ravenser looked at the canon askance. ‘Do you think me a monster?’

Louth rubbed his eyes. ‘Forgive me. I shall attend you at the grave, if you do not mind.’

‘I welcome your company, I assure you. It is not a thing I do lightly. I would also like you to send out your men to stir up gossip, see whether they learn anything new about Will Longford. Or Maddy. Let me know tomorrow morning what you’ve heard.’

What Louth learned from his men about Longford’s reputation surprised neither him nor Ravenser. Longford was universally disliked and distrusted. His appetite for women had led most folk, upon hearing of the death of the nun in his house, to surmise that Longford had abducted, raped, then rejected the poor young woman, and that she had died of shame or fear for her immortal soul. Some even suggested that he had poisoned her. Now, with the news of Dame Joanna’s return, the consensus was that she had run away with Longford (no matter the delay in his departure) and he had rejected her. Some cynical souls even hoped that the nun had killed him.

Not a romantic figure,’ Louth said.

Ravenser leaned back, his slender hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. ‘Eight months after Dame Joanna’s “burial” Longford disappeared. What if she was with child and he went to meet her after the birth? Then something happened to separate the happy family?’

Then where is the baby?’

Ravenser sat up, ‘Dead? Might that be why the grave has been disturbed?’

‘Or perhaps she lied about being with child. He discovered it. Rejected her.’

Ravenser smiled. ‘We spin a good yarn.’

Louth did not smile. ‘As I see it, Dame Joanna ran away to be with a lover, who may or may not be Longford, and something went wrong. Perhaps so wrong that he followed her back here to kill her.’

‘But why would he have raped Maddy?’

Louth closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘My men heard nothing ill of her. A hard worker, bit of a dreamer.’ He dabbed at his eyes. ‘The poor, sweet child.’

Old Dan took off his dusty cap and scratched his bald head. ‘A man buries so many as I have, can’t recall ’em all. But I remember Master Longford buryin’ someone, aye.’

‘Do you remember anything else about it?’

The old man wriggled in his ragged clothes as if the question made him itch. ‘Not as such, Sir.’

‘Is that a yea or a nay?’

‘I remember the ale, Sir. A wondrous brew, thick and strong. The kind you chew before you swallow.’ He grinned at the memory.

‘Someone brought it while you filled in the grave?’

Old Dan crushed the hat in his hands, stared down at his dirty boots. ‘I shouldn’t’ve touched it before ’twas done, but dear Lord, it was one of the sunniest days of that wet summer and steam come up at me with every spadeful of earth. It near boiled me. A thirsty man will drink.’

‘I am not judging you, Dan. Who brought you the ale?’

‘’Twas Jaro, Master Longford’s man.’

‘Do you remember filling the grave while you sampled the ale, Dan?’

A dirty hand crept back up to the bald head, scratching. ‘Now there’s the problem, you see. I can’t say as I remember the filling in, but I’ve been digging graves all my life and I’m sure I did it right.’

‘Did anyone help you? Longford, perhaps?’

Old Dan shrugged. ‘To speak truth, I can swear to naught once I tasted that wondrous brew.’

‘You know what you’re to do now, Dan?’

They spoke true, then? You want it dug up?’

‘It must be done. Have you the stomach for it?’

‘Don’t know till I do. But if it must be done –’ Dan shrugged. ‘Can’t say as I wouldn’t welcome company.’

‘I shall accompany you.’ Ravenser wished to keep this incident quiet if possible. ‘And Sir Nicholas, also.’

It had rained in the night. The morning was dry but overcast, the air heavy. Old Dan and his son fell to the task in silence, but soon they cursed the saturated earth. As they dug, water seeped in to fill the hole and make the soil heavy to lift.