As the days lengthened and the pale green leaves of early spring, delicate as an infant’s fingers and toes, swelled to complete the forest canopy, a cruel visitor wound its way north along the roads and the waterways, sowing fear and sorrow. All knew of its coming, for it had called on a few unsuspecting households near York in the golden light of August past. The two youngest Wolcotts, an infant and a toddler, had succumbed. The manqualm taking the most precious members of a family disrupted the balance of affections. But Magda Digby had sensed trouble brewing among them long before, the Death merely coaxing out the poison. Other families were touched as well – children, parents, elders. All knew that it was merely a taste of what was to come as summer returned. The pattern was known: warm weather ripened it until it burst forth, spreading its seed. All were wary, looking for scapegoats on whom to hang the blame.

Memory of the first visitation stirred a deep, ancient fear in the folk that lay dormant in good times, a fear of the Riverwoman’s healing skill. For she was ever the outsider, the wise woman living just beyond the city wall, on a rock in the Ouse guarded by a dragon. She blamed no one for the shunning, having known the risk when she chose her path. Born of a long line of healing women on the moors who served their community with ancient roots in the wild hills, she had been raised to follow in their footsteps. And then, in the midst of a year of disasters, a shabby friar intruded on their peace, his beady eyes slithering and twitching as he preached of a vengeful god who would continue to punish them with sicknesses that thinned their flocks and disastrous summer rains that ruined their crops until they cast out the healers and wise women, worshippers of Satan, daughters of Lucifer.

Neither Magda nor any of her kin knew of such a being as this Satan or Lucifer, much less worshipped him, yet one by one, household by household, the folk turned on the healers, threatening to burn them all unless the women set aside their evil practices. It was a choice between what the friar called the dragon, Satan, and the lamb, the Christian god. Magda was confused – the god he described sounded far more the dragon than the lamb, and he seemed indifferent to the welfare of his ‘children’ – but her questions were received as attacks and she was cursed for them. All the while the slovenly, corpulent snake slithered through the community, forcing himself on the young women. Magda was ready for him, burning the arm that reached for her with a red-hot knife. For that she was ordered to submit to whatever punishment he commanded for her penance.

Magda chose banishment, walking off into the forests to the north, where she lived a long while in a community who practiced the old ways in peace. The only dragon they knew of was wise and fierce, a powerful protection. In time she returned south for the sake of a child longing for her brother. But she kept to her path of healing, ever wary of Churchmen, especially in times of loss when their worship of a god of vengeance separated folk from their own wisdom about the earth and their own bodies. She would bide her time, ready to depart if truly threatened. Over the years she learned that eventually the clerics grew so fearful they bolted their doors against the community, and then the folk remembered how she’d helped them in the past, once more seeking her aid.

For now, as she exited Bootham Bar in a soft rain, she bid the city farewell. The poor were her priority, particularly those living without the walls of the city and in the forest of Galtres. The city inhabitants were well served by physicians, barbers, and midwives, but the poor had only her.

The line to enter the city straggled out past the walls of St Mary’s Abbey. Bedraggled, already weary, many having risen long before dawn to make the trek, the folk stood in small clusters, eyeing the others with unease. They searched for signs of illness, fearing this might be the day the manqualm walked among them. The fear would be stronger in the throng at Micklegate Bar, on the King’s road from the south, where the Death already wakened.

Water was her element, despite the fiery reputation. In the liminal light of late evening she played in the River Ouse, leaving a trail of silver droplets as she arched and dove, reemerging from the peat-brown water, shaking her head, arching and diving once more, circling the rock that had been her home this long while. The ease, the grace, the joy of movement reminded Magda Digby of a time when her own body sliced through chilly waters alongside the most beautiful man she had ever known. She followed the happy memory as a scent on the wind and a taste of salt in the brown water signaled the turning of the tide in the loamy water of the Ouse. Until the gentle splash of an oar called her back to her seat in the doorway of her home on the rocky island in the Ouse. Slipping back onto the roof, the dragon gave one more shake, droplets raining down on Magda, and resumed her watch.

A coracle emerged from the fog thrown up by the dragon play. Magda wondered whether it would be Sten. For why else the recent tidal wave of memories? But he had doubtless died of old age years ago. Their son? She walked to the edge of the rock, calling to the passenger to toss her the line. As she secured it on the stake driven into the rock she noted that the river lad’s companion was too short to be Sten. Their son? Grandson? There must be a reason Sten haunted her dreams. But as he turned to toss the line she saw that her visitor had nothing to do with her distant past.

It was Sam Toller, Guthlac Wolcott’s factor, or agent for trade, his face creased with worry as he disembarked. She might guess that at last old Guthlac had let go the incompetent leech attending him and sent for her but that Sam pulsed with fear for himself, his family … and her. Perhaps the leech had stirred up more trouble? Or was she sensing Sam’s fear of the pestilence? Both, most likely.

‘I will wait for you here, Master Toller,’ the lad called.

Sam lifted a hand to acknowledge him and followed Magda to the house. He crossed himself as he passed beneath the stern visage of the dragon, then hastened across the threshold.

‘Hast thou news of thy daughter’s baby?’ Magda asked. Several weeks earlier she had guided the young wife through a long, difficult delivery, her firstborn, pitifully small with a mewling cry that bespoke a weak heart. Magda had stayed with mother and infant in their home in the north of the forest of Galtres for several nights until her husband returned from taking goods to market.

‘No. No news from Mary,’ said Sam. ‘But here.’ He thrust a small money pouch toward her. ‘She would want you to have this.’

Though Magda sensed his relief in the gesture, his shallow breathing indicated an accompanying unease. Mary might approve, but that was not her father’s purpose in coming, nor was this his or his daughter’s money. ‘Many thanks for this generous offering,’ she said. ‘Come, sit down, warm thyself.’ She drew him to a bench near the fire, poured him a bowl of ale, and handed it to him as she settled so that she might see his face in the firelight.

He tasted it, then took a longer drink. ‘Bless you. I needed this.’ He stared at the fire, his gaze taking on a faraway quality.

‘With the sickness threatening the city, thy mistress will be reminded of her little ones,’ said Magda. She spoke of Beatrice, the young wife of his employer, Guthlac Wolcott, for whom Sam harbored a strong affection. The Wolcotts’ young son and infant daughter had died of the pestilence at the end of the past summer.

Sam nodded. ‘And Guthlac’s health is failing. Yet he was hale and hardy in winter. How is it that no one speaks of what is so plain, that he began to fail the moment the leech Bernard appeared? God forgive me, but I blame Guthlac’s son for this.’ Gavin, the old merchant’s son and heir, born of an earlier marriage, a few years older than his father’s young wife and rumored to have no affection for her. ‘You would not know the old man now.’

‘Alisoun told Magda of his decline.’ Her apprentice had been shocked by the elderly Wolcott’s condition when she saw him on the street leaning heavily on the arms of his wife and a manservant. So much change in the fortnight since Magda had been in the city was indeed cause for concern. Alisoun was at present assisting in Lucie Wilton’s shop while the apothecary accompanied her husband Owen Archer to London on royal business. For convenience she was lodging in the couple’s home.

‘She must have seen him on one of his last outings,’ said Sam. ‘He no longer leaves his bed.’ He crossed himself.

‘Is it concern for thine employer that furrows thy brow?’

‘Yes, but– In truth, at present it is my concern for you. I came to warn you that the leech Bernard means you harm. He has poisoned the hearts of Guthlac and his son Gavin against you. I pray you, do not come into the city.’

‘Magda has no thought to do so. With the sickness surrounding the city she will be busy with the poor and the folk of Galtres. But rest easy, the leech Bernard will not have the leisure to think of Magda.’

‘They say Bernard demands such a high fee that few in the city can afford his services.’

‘The desperate will do so.’ She heard a timid knock on the door. ‘That will be the lad waiting with the coracle.’

‘My wife is grateful for all that you did for our daughter.’ A gentle lie, for his wife Gemma resented charity of money or spirit spent outside her home. But Sam was a kind man accustomed to compensating for his wife’s sharpness.

Magda escorted him to the door and watched as the lad rowed him back, skillfully maneuvering against the current of the outgoing tide. He was of an age with the others who assisted her, seven or eight winters, strengthened by the rowing and other work, on the cusp of being sent away from home to seek his way in the world. Her brave lads. She paid them well.

It was a busy evening on the bank. Magda noticed a man standing upstream from the spot where Sam would disembark, watching her. She had sensed this person often of late, sometimes accompanied by another, but not tonight. Another pair of watchers stood closer to the landing but farther from the bank. Hostile, menacing, but watching the coracle, not her. It seemed Sam Toller had cause to be ill at ease. She watched until he disembarked and walked away without incident.

Once alone Magda tucked the pouch of coins in a hidden place so that it might be safe until she decided who needed it most, then resumed the chopping of roots to add later to what was left of the coney stew. She was about to serve herself when Alisoun appeared, pausing in the doorway, eyes closed, inhaling, her exhale a long sigh of release.

‘Thou art troubled,’ said Magda. ‘What news from the city?’

‘A woman in All Saints parish has died of the sickness the morning after returning from her sister’s home to the south. Her husband burned all that was in their bedchamber. But God watches over them. Neither he nor the children have taken ill.’

All Saints parish lay in the center of York. ‘They have not been attacked for fear they carry the sickness?’

‘No. It is not like that this time – or not yet.’ Alisoun bent over the pot to sniff. ‘Mmm.’

‘Thou art welcome to sup with Magda.’ Kate, Owen and Lucie’s housekeeper, would feed her well, but her apprentice was fond of coney stew.

‘Gladly.’ Alisoun set her basket on the worktable, lifting out a loaf of bread. ‘Kate sent this. And I bought this for you.’ She set a jug on the worktable. ‘Tom Merchet’s ale.’ The owner of the York Tavern next to the apothecary brewed the finest ale in the north.

‘Many thanks. A bowl of the ale, then stew?’

They settled by the fire, speaking of their days, small matters, news of shared acquaintances. Alisoun’s blushes told Magda that she was enjoying her close work with Lucie’s son and apprentice, Jasper. The two had declared their love for each other several years earlier, but they were often at odds, she easily believing herself betrayed, he withdrawing into himself when uncertain of his path. It was good they were at peace for now. Yet something troubled the young woman. After some hesitation, she came to the point.

‘There is yet another new healer in the city,’ said Alisoun. ‘A woman. And the leech Bernard has turned several of our customers against us.’

‘Sam Toller spoke of him, warning Magda to stay away.’

‘I saw Sam glancing over his shoulder as he was rowed to the bank, peering into the twilight as if sensing trouble.’

‘But he departed safely?’

‘Yes, of course. Who would wish him harm?’

‘Magda noticed a pair watching him. She could not see who they were.’

Alisoun nodded absently.

‘What dost thou know about this new healer?’ asked Magda.

Alisoun drank a little of her ale, cleared her throat, and looked at a corner of the room rather than Magda. ‘A gray-haired woman, tall, walking with a cane. I have seen her on the street, not in the apothecary. She does not seem friendly. Folk say she is from Lincoln, or Peterborough, or from up on the moors. Ned Cooper says she is attending his mother since his father forbade her to come to you.’ The young man worked for Owen Archer, captain of the city bailiffs.

‘Magda is glad to hear that she has sought a healer.’ Some women transitioned out of their childbearing years with a gradual easing of the monthly cycle, a slow cessation, hardly noticed until it was gone. But such was not the lot of Ned’s mother, Celia. For the past year she had endured weeks of bleeding, an unfortunate, not uncommon way a woman’s body adjusted to the changing season of life. ‘Is she in much distress?’

‘The long bleeding comes more frequently, weakening her.’

‘This new healer is helping?’

‘Ned thinks not. He says her potions sicken Dame Celia, flushing away what little food she has managed to eat. And while she sits at his mother’s bedside the healer draws images in charcoal on paper that fill his mother with unease and give her bad dreams.’

‘What frightens her about them?’ Magda asked. She began to understand Alisoun’s unease.

‘He brought a few to show me, to see whether I agreed. There is something about them. They seem to change. Grow. I did not find them frightening, but strange.’ Alisoun handed Magda a page crowded with images, creatures and plants intertwining, spreading, twisting, seeming to grow out of the drawing and into the room.

It was as she had suspected. ‘Magda has seen such images before.’ She handed back the paper. ‘Why art thou reluctant to say her name?’

‘But I–’

‘Was it Jasper who told thee?’

Alisoun blushed. ‘I heard a rumor that she is your daughter Asa. Then I asked Jasper and he said he had heard she made no secret of it. But as you have not spoken of her–’

‘When did she arrive?’

‘I think about the time you left the city.’

Magda thought back to a gray-haired woman supporting herself on a cane. She had seen her from behind and felt a tug. But so faint.

‘She has not come to you?’ Alisoun asked.

‘No. Art thou worried she will supplant thee?’

‘She is family.’

‘She would prefer it were not so.’

‘Then why come to York?’

‘Magda does not know. But thou needst not fear. Thou art more daughter to Magda than Asa has ever been. This is thy home as long as thou wishes it.’ She rose to fetch the stew, giving her apprentice a moment to regain her composure.

While they ate, Magda led the conversation toward the proper seasoning of a coney stew and the items Alisoun should put aside in the shop for her next assignment.

Afterward, while sharing a touch of brandywine, Alisoun returned to Celia Cooper, concerned that Ned’s father, learning that Asa was Magda’s daughter, had threatened to replace her with the leech Bernard. ‘Ned has seen Guthlac Wolcott’s decline and warned his father against him, but the man is stubborn,’ said Alisoun.

Edwin Cooper was the worst of hypocrites, spouting pious nonsense and loudly condemning others for their sins while bedding the maidservants and casting them out when they became pregnant. Magda knew of this from young women who had worked in his household and come seeking her help.

‘Ned might suggest that his mother ask to go to St Clement’s Priory,’ said Magda. ‘The infirmarian has experience with women of Celia’s age. She would be safe and well cared for.’

‘Why would Edwin Cooper agree to that?’

‘Is the young woman with the red hair still serving in the household? If so, he will feel free to be with her.’

‘I see. But is that not a cruel use of her?’

‘This one is wise to his ways and uses him to her purpose,’ said Magda.

Alisoun considered for a moment. ‘I will tell Ned.’

Only as Alisoun rose to depart did she speak again of Asa. ‘She claims to be a healer. Did you train her?’

‘No. Asa believed she should be able to heal without the long study. She believed that as it was in her blood her mother must be punishing her by instructing her to study and observe, that she was hiding the craft from her. She was ever impatient with a world that did not bend to her idea of how it should be.’

‘Much like me when I first came to you.’

Magda laughed. ‘There were echoes, yes. But that was long ago and thou hast come far.’

When she was alone Magda returned to the fact that she had not sensed Asa’s presence in the city, nor had she recognized her on the street. She wondered how that connected to her rush of memories of Sten. Their children were the twins Yrsa and Odo. Asa had a different father. Was the other, more frequent watcher somehow connected to Sten? She was now quite certain it was Asa who sometimes joined him. But how would they have met? Sten and the twins had been long gone from Magda’s life when she met Asa’s father Digby. Stepping outside, she settled beneath the dragon and let the quiet of the night calm her. Only then did she go to bed.

Just before dawn the cry of an owl wakened her, its claws scratching along the roof. After a long pause, it took flight. No more sleep for her. As Magda prepared her basket of healing remedies for the day’s visits she considered who might have died in the night. But by day’s end she had heard nothing to explain the portent.

Several days passed without news of the death of which the owl had warned. Magda let it be. Nothing to do until the prophecy came clear. She continued to be curious about her watchers. The one most often about was male, she sensed cautious interest. And she was now quite certain his occasional companion was Asa, wary and angry. Whether the man was also kin she could not tell, but after sensing him she often thought of Sten. That, too, she let be. Her days were busy, and that would be so through the summer. When Lucie Wilton returned to her apothecary, likely within a fortnight, Alisoun would move on to Lucie’s family manor in the countryside south of York to care for the couple’s children, who would remain there until the manqualm quieted in York. It would ease the minds of the couple to have a competent healer in the household should the Death find the manor. Magda was happy for Alisoun to go, but her absence meant she would continue to care for folk outside the city by herself. Just yesterday a family north of Easingwold had been struck, an infant sickening in the morning, dead by nightfall. The news spread quickly. Magda had learned of it as she began her rounds.

In late afternoon, with her physicks dispensed, roots and herbs gathered, Magda turned toward home. But she did not hurry. The warmth of the day enfolded her in a pleasurable caress, inviting her to stray off the path here and there in search of tender shoots she might have missed. A cluster of coltsfoot in the ruins of an old shed rewarded her. Humming to herself and absorbed in harvesting the bright plants, she did not feel the weather shift until the wind whipped her skirts about her legs as she turned back toward the forest track. A briny wind. Glancing up, she saw the canopy of trees being whipped by the gusts, though there was blue sky beyond. Clear now, but not for long.

Caw! A beady eye studied her from an overhanging branch. Caw! Caw! Raven. When Asa was a child, Raven had watched out for her. Caw! With a ruffling of feathers, the bird rose to the sky just visible through the woodland canopy. Magda quickened her pace, all temptation to step off the path in search of plants gone with the wind and the raven.

By the time Magda emerged from beneath the cover of trees into the fields before the abbey walls, clouds chased the blue westward, chilling the air. Caw! Caw! Raven tacked into the wind. Tucking the basket beneath her cloak, Magda continued to the riverbank opposite her home. One of the lads hailed her, offering to row her to the rock.

‘Magda will go by foot,’ she said. The tide was coming in, but it was not yet so high. ‘Take thyself home. Shelter from the storm.’ She tucked her skirts up into her girdle and put her shoes in her basket.

Caw!

She crossed over the shallow water using the smooth river stones pressed into the mud to afford a reasonably dry walkway. Once on the rocky outcrop she paused, watching Raven fight against the sharp east wind to at last alight on her dragon. Raven’s battle with the storm reminded Magda of her daughter; so Asa had ever been, fighting against the elements, against anything.

Gazing out over the water, Raven fluffed her feathers, turning one eye, then the other on the Ouse, where the storm whipped the incoming tide into a boiling surge from the sea. Caw! Caw!

‘Is Asa threatened by the storm?’

Raven did not respond.

Nor did Magda sense that her daughter waited within the house. Shaking out her skirts, she took shelter in her snug home.

All night wind and rain battered the house while the fire within snapped and chuckled, the varied woods in conversation. Now and then Magda dipped her finger in a cup of goat’s milk and fed it to the kitten curled up in a basket on the edge of the table, the runt of a litter who had been handed to her by a young girl when she returned at midday. Magda had been given the goat’s milk in payment just hours before. Nature’s balance. Hungrier now, mewing for more, the kitten wobbled about in the basket, her gray, tan, and white asymmetrical markings reminding Magda of her own patchwork clothing.

‘Thou’rt eager to thrive, little one,’ Magda murmured. The kitten rubbed its head against her hand. The child would not return, her family would forbid it. No matter. A home would be found. ‘Thou hast a good appetite.’ From a shelf she plucked an old cloth glove that was missing several fingers. With a snip, it lost another. Filling it with some milk, she held it to the tiny mouth. The makeshift nipple was soon suckled dry. ‘Enough for now.’

Magda settled to work, humming as she ground nuts and roots for a broth that sustained her when busy, kept in a small jug she carried with her as she traveled in her donkey cart to the farthest reaches of Galtres, her primary visitation routes. The cart and donkey were a treasured gift from Old Crow, the late John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. Her good friend in the end. He had not always been so.

A neighbor kept the cart and donkey for her, and when Alisoun was not available to groom Nip, her name for the ever-hungry being, the neighbor’s daughter did so. For her, Magda prepared a tisane to ease the child’s tremors, the result of a head injury when young. As the girl grew and explored the world the tremors were easing, but not yet gone, and she hid from the world in fear that folk would think her cursed or possessed by a devil. Foolish ideas from the same source as made some folk fearful of Magda’s skills as a healer. The Church taught intolerance for the mysteries that did not serve it, and the people suffered. Turning her mind back to the child, Magda added angelica for sweetness.

A gust of wind found the chink between the door and the sill, sending the fire dancing. The kitten mewed. Magda found her trembling, and after feeding her another nipple full of the goat’s milk she tucked her in her basket bed and softly sang as she stroked her asleep. Despite the storm, a peaceful moment, an evening of contentment. When she had prepared all that she needed for the next day’s planned visitations, Magda lifted the kitten from her basket and held her on her lap while enjoying a cup of spiced wine in the fire’s warmth. As they sat, the kitten purring, Magda’s thoughts drifted to Wicket, the kitten with whom she’d slept as a small child, the being with whom she’d shared her dreams, her fears, her secrets. ‘Perhaps thou hast come to share Magda’s bed once more?’ Setting aside her empty cup, Magda sprinkled sand over the fire so that it would die down, and slipped into bed with the kitten.

As she drifted off to sleep she sensed Raven on her shoulder, whispering of another who had slept with kittens long ago, and other small beings she would spend the day drawing. Flowers also Asa had drawn, covering the walls of the house with fantastical bouquets and vines out of which peeked the young beings she nursed to health. She created beauty, yet believed she had no gifts. A contrary child, always preferring what others had, certain all had more than she. From what she had seen of her present art, Magda guessed that Asa now drew what she sensed roiling the minds of the ill, but had not learned to draw from memory once she had left the patient’s presence and then burn the nightmare to release that which poisoned the spirit. A mistake a teacher would have caught and corrected.

Sometime in the night Magda woke from a troubled sleep, thinking of the bank across from the swans’ nest. She had dreamt a body floated there, swollen from time in the Ouse. In the morning she would walk the bank to see whether she dreamed true. The kitten mewed and touched her face with both front paws. Stroking her gently, Magda returned to sleep.

After feeding the kitten in the early morning, Magda walked upriver to the place in her dream. Father Swan glided by, a ghostly grace in the rising river mist, looking back toward something snagged by a fallen log that was in turn trapped by willow roots along the bank. She found the bloated corpse of Sam Toller, eyeless, one hand shredded, a wreck of the appendage with which he might in life have grasped on to the log and pulled himself from the waters. She guessed he had snagged on the log before the storm dislodged it and carried it here.

She bowed her head, thanking River for carrying him to a place where he might be found, grieved, put to rest. May his spirit be at peace. She remembered his daughter Mary speaking of him with deep affection. A kind, generous man, a caring father. She would take a calming draught to Mary when next she traveled north past Easingwold. And if his death proved no accident, may those responsible be brought to account.

Magda sensed her male watcher behind her. Not Asa. Today he was wary, as if unsure of her, even frightened, but also curious, almost eager. He stood beneath the trees a few strides from the bank, revealing himself with a movement as she stepped close to the water. Though she did not turn she felt him stretch out his arms as if to steady her, but stopped short of touching her. He might of course mean to push her in. He had been watching when Sam left her home, and the mix of curiosity and fear suggested this, that he might realize she could implicate him.

‘Thou wouldst offer to assist this old woman in pulling the body from the river?’ she asked as she turned to face him.

A step backward, brows pulled down in a frown, eyes wary. ‘I thought you might need help.’

The young man was a stranger and yet familiar. She studied him as well as she could, with him still shadowed by the trees. He was not yet twenty years, she thought. Healthy. Ah. Now she saw it. It was the eyes. He was kin, of that she now had no doubt. That did not ensure he meant her no harm, but she was not worried. She smiled at him, hearing his name in her mind.

‘You smile in the presence of death?’ he asked.

‘The dead take no offense.’

‘You are not frightened?’

‘Art thou? The dead cannot harm thee.’

He returned the smile. ‘You are all they say you are.’

‘They? Thou hast asked about the Riverwoman?’ She waved off his attempt to answer. ‘No matter. There is no need to assist now. The coroner must see him where he lies. Wilt thou watch him? See that he does not float away?’

‘I– Yes, of course. For how long?’

‘Not long.’ With a nod, she left him.

Returning to the shanties of the poor, she chose the eldest of a clutch of lads who came out to see whether she had work for them this day. ‘Go to Crispin Poole’s home on Coney Street. What was the Swann home. Say that Dame Magda has need of the coroner of Galtres.’

The lad took off, several of the younger ones trailing after him. Those who remained asked what had happened, was there a body. ‘In good time.’ Calling the youngest to her, a lad called Twig who often helped her with animals, she asked whether he might care for a kitten while she was away for the day. ‘A half penny and a potion for thy dam.’ Beaming, he followed her across the still ebbing tide. She instructed him in the feeding of the little one, then left him cradling her as she fetched the basket she had filled for her day’s visitations and departed. She would not neglect the sick for a dead man. Her part in the morning’s grim discovery would soon be complete.

Back on the bank she thanked her watcher and advised him to go on about his day. ‘Thou art welcome in the dragon’s house any time. This evening after sunset would suit Magda. Come with an appetite. Asa is also welcome.’

‘How did you–?’

‘Magda has sensed thee watching, sometimes with Asa. After sunset, Einar.’

‘You know my name? Asa came to you after all?’

He might be kin, her daughter Yrsa’s grandson, judging by the eyes, but he was not gifted with the knowing of names. She would be curious to learn whether he carried any of the gifts passed down through her own or Sten’s families.

‘No. She has not yet come to see Magda. Go now.’

She kept her ears pricked until she could tell he was well away upriver, then settled on the remnants of a stone wall to await Crispin Poole, welcoming the memories stirred by the encounter. In the brown water of the Ouse she saw a child frightened by the fear in her father’s eyes when he chided her for greeting a stranger by name. She had not understood, her mother having never told her this was a gift others did not share. She had not known she was different until that day when her father tucked her behind him as he told her mother of the incident. Never tell anyone outside the village that you hear their names. She saw her mother’s fear. They will curse you. She had not known it to be a gift not all healers shared, had not known to ask. It seemed a useless knowing. A name told one little about a person, least of all what ailed them. But later she had understood – men considered a name a thing of power.

Low voices on the bank warned of two men approaching. Coroner and bailiff. She was pleased that Crispin Poole had collected the bailiff George Hempe on the way.

Rising to greet them, she gestured toward the body. ‘Sam Toller.’

Both men crossed themselves and bowed their heads for a moment, then Poole bent for a closer look at the body in the willow roots, asking whether she was certain it was Sam.

‘She’s right. I recognize the tunic,’ said Hempe. ‘And the hair.’ Long strands of brown billowed out from the ruined face. Sam had worn his thick brown hair long for a man of the city, a vanity.

‘How did you find him?’ Poole asked.

‘Dost thou see the nest on the far bank? Each year this pair returns to birth their young. They have become friends. Magda walked out to see how they fared in the storm. The body was where thou seest it.’ No need to speak of the dream.

Poole grunted as he straightened. ‘Death by drowning. Looks as if he’s been in the water a few days.’

‘No one has seen him for two days,’ said Hempe. ‘His wife has been worried.’

‘He came to see Magda three evenings ago,’ she said, ‘bringing a gift for seeing his daughter safely through a hard birthing. He did not stay long.’

‘Perhaps in the river ever since then,’ said Poole. ‘Was the tide in when he left you?’

‘Flood tide it was. But Magda watched him cross back to the bank in a coracle steered by one of the lads. It was not yet dark. Does Gemma Toller say he never returned home?’

‘She says he told her in the morning that he would be late returning home,’ said Hempe, ‘and she did not see him again. Ah, here they are,’ Hempe waved to a pair of young men approaching, carrying cloth and ropes.

Ned Cooper greeted Magda with warmth. ‘My mother is safely at St Clement’s. My father could not refuse her wish to give herself up to God for healing. Not after condemning you and Asa for worshipping false gods. My mother and I are grateful to you. But I–’

With the others hovering, Magda patted his arm. ‘Good. That is good.’ She stepped back.

The other young man nodded to her, mumbling something respectful, but clearly eager to see the body. Until he wasn’t. Hand to mouth, he hurried away into the brush to lose his breakfast.

‘I thought it time he was blooded,’ said Hempe with an apologetic wince. ‘Ned, take Peter to find some stout branches so you can carry the body back to town.’

Once they had pulled Sam from the river, Poole declared the cause of death uncertain – the damage to the back of his head was such as to be unlikely to have been caused by drowning. Floating debris in the rushing waters of a tidal swell might do such damage, but unlikely unless he were vertical in the water. Far more likely someone hit him, then threw him into the river. To Magda’s eyes the latter was a certainty. Sam had been murdered.

‘I wish Archer were here,’ said Poole.

‘Thy friend is on the road home,’ said Magda.

‘I am glad to hear it. Close enough to delay the burial?’

‘No. Permit his widow to bury him. Thou canst record what Archer should see.’

‘Peter can sketch the body for him,’ said Hempe. ‘Another reason to include him. I’ve had a bad feeling about Sam’s sudden absence.’

With a nod, Magda took up her basket and set off down the path toward her next visit.

‘Dame Magda.’ Ned caught up with her, drawing her into the trees where they might not be watched. ‘I must tell you about your daughter Asa.’

Remembering Raven’s struggle, she said, ‘She did not depart thy home in peace.’

‘After she had been warned away my father found her at my mother’s bedside. Gossiping about Bernard the leech and Guthlac Wolcott’s decline. Wolcott is a good customer for father’s barrels, and two warehousemen were below fetching some for him. I arrived as father chased Asa down the stairs calling her Satan’s spawn, the Devil’s own, accusing her of spreading rumors about a Godfearing leech and the Wolcotts. He knocked her cane out of her hands. She clutched the banister but started to fall and I rushed to help her. I caught her cane and threatened my father with it if he interfered. I’ve challenged him before. He knew I would not hesitate to carry out the threat. So he kept his distance. Raining curses down on both of us, of course. I helped her out of the yard but she shook me off once out on the street. Preferred to limp off on her own. Later I heard she had been attacked by two men, but onlookers had chased them off. They say she was hurt, falling badly on one leg as she walked away.’

Magda had listened with eyes closed. Now she nodded. ‘Hast thou seen her?’

‘No. Her landlady said she wished to be left in peace.’

‘Hast thou told anyone else of this?’

‘Hempe knows. I told him the whole story when I asked him if he knew where I might stay.’

‘Thy father banished thee?’

‘Again. My sisters will beg him to forgive me. But this time … Now that my mother is safe …’ He gestured as if well away.

Magda knew that Celia Cooper was often the victim of her husband’s temper. ‘What of thy sisters? Will he now turn on them?’

‘Their husbands would not tolerate it, and my elder brother’s wife knows how to appease my father.’

‘Thou hast found lodging?’

‘Dame Lotta insisted I bide with them.’

Hempe’s wife. Magda smiled, patted his shoulder. ‘Good. Many thanks for the news.’

‘Dame Magda, I am worried for you.’

‘Sam Toller was as well. There is no need. Folk will not cross Magda’s dragon.’

‘But what of during the day when you are walking about?’

‘Magda trusts that she will sense danger approaching. Her weapon is her knowledge of Galtres, every path and track, where it is dangerous to tread, the hidden places. See to thine own safety. Now go. Hempe will be looking for thee.’

She set off on her rounds. Asa might appear on her doorstep this night, and she wished to be ready for her. But her work came first.

At sunset, Magda’s guests used the coracle to cross though the water was not yet high. Stepping outside as it touched the rock, Magda saw Raven circling overhead – she who flies against the wind. Against all. So Asa had come. Raven cawed three times and flew off.

Einar helped his gray-haired companion climb out onto the rock. She stumbled against him, then struggled to straighten on her own. She suffered, but she would not bend to it.

‘Welcome. It has been a long while, Asa,’ said Magda.

‘A long while,’ Asa said through her teeth.

‘Thou art injured?’

‘I am old.’ Not a lie. Asa gestured to her companion. ‘You have met my son Einar?’

Though his eyes were unlike Asa’s, and his mouth prone to smiles, the dark hair and long nose were like hers. Still, Magda knew what she knew.

‘Dame Magda.’ Einar bowed.

‘Go within while Magda speaks to the lad who brought thee across.’ She would have need of Twig in the morning. ‘How didst thou fare with the kitten, Twig?’

He grinned. ‘She likes the milk. I sat out in the sun with her a while this afternoon. She slept on my lap.’

Magda gave him a penny for his day’s work. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Dame Magda!’

‘Have one of the lads await the guests’ departure in a few hours.’

‘I will.’

Stepping within and shutting the door, she invited her guests to help themselves to the ale she had set out, and the pot of stew. Einar served Asa, then himself while Magda saw to the kitten, who drank well.

‘Your kitten?’ Einar asked as Magda helped herself to food and drink.

‘Mayhap.’ She took a seat across from the young man, Asa between them.

‘I have long wished to meet you, Dame Magda,’ he said.

‘Asa spoke of Magda to thee?’

‘It was my father who told me of you.’

‘Magda knows him?’ She guessed that his father was Yrsa’s son. Or perhaps Odo’s, though he would know little about Magda. He had been very young when Sten left with him.

‘No, he never met you, but he heard much of you.’

‘From thy dam?’ Magda asked, smiling at Asa, who would not meet her eyes.

Einar shrugged.

Magda sensed a deep, restless force held in check. Disciplined. Unlike Asa, though much like his grandmother, if she was right about Yrsa. Asa had ever been headstrong, impatient … Magda stopped the thoughts. Better to rein in judgement. Life might have taught Asa the wisdom of temperance.

‘I took it upon myself to set the kettle over the fire,’ said Asa. ‘Would you prepare me a soothing tisane?’

‘Thy leg is painful.’ Magda knew better than to mention the attack. Asa must choose whether or not to speak of it.

‘All my bones. The long walk, the coming storm …’

Magda set aside her bowl and fetched a powder, mixed it with hot water and wine, proffered the cup to Asa.

Her daughter placed a hand over Magda’s and closed her eyes. Magda felt her reach out, and did as well, a mutual sensing that continued long enough to enable her to assess the extent of her daughter’s injuries. A bruised arm, sore neck and shoulder, but the worst of it was the already injured leg, and her feet. She was most curious about the feet. This was an older, ongoing trouble.

With a murmured thanks, Asa freed Magda’s hand and sipped. ‘You are much as I remember.’ A familiar bitterness in the low, arresting voice. Magda had never been to her daughter’s liking. Knowing that her mother had uncanny gifts, she had hungered for signs of it in herself. From early youth Asa drew, later painted, landscapes to hold the eyes, then the heart and mind. Magda praised her gift, but the child felt it a paltry thing. She could not see how her drawings affected people – for good or ill. She scoffed at Magda’s attempts to advise her to hold it close, making use of it only when nothing else would suffice. But the child said anyone could draw and blamed her mother for keeping her true gift from her.

‘Magda is glad to see thee.’

A dark laugh. ‘Are you?’

‘If thou dost doubt it, why hast thou come?’

‘A question for a question for a question.’ Asa eyed her warily, yet her weariness softened the challenge.

‘Magda has sensed thee near. Art thou lodging in the city?’

‘I have been. But Einar has offered to share his lodgings.’

Magda looked to him.

‘Old Shep’s house. A villager upriver told me that his friend had died and left the house empty.’

‘A good choice,’ said Magda. It was near the river in a copse that hid it from curious eyes– Shep had his reasons. ‘Art thou in need of anything? Cushions? Blankets?’

‘Einar has been to market,’ said Asa. ‘But another blanket would be welcome.’

Her guests were wary, taking care with their words, sometimes glancing at each other, as if easing toward their purpose, fearful lest they say too much too soon. They spoke of the body in the river. Magda added little to Einar’s description, admitting only to knowing Sam Toller. Some additional talk of the city, nothing of substance.

Uninterested in their dance, Magda rose. ‘While Magda sees to the little one, decide who will explain thy purpose in coming to York.’ She went to her worktable, taking her time preparing the nipple of milk, then resumed her seat, the kitten in her arms, and bent to the feeding.

‘I was always the one to care for the animals,’ Asa noted.

Magda said nothing, waiting for more, giving her attention to the life in her arms. Already she felt the bond, her own heart softening. Holda, she thought, the wise one.

‘In Peterborough folk talked of pestilence, the certainty that this was the summer it would return, and I regretted waiting so long to come to you,’ said Asa.

Einar mouthed the word Peterborough with a frown.

‘And thou didst wait again once here,’ Magda said, softly, without censure.

‘The journey was difficult for me,’ said Asa. ‘I needed to rest before coming to you. And to understand how it went with you. I know that I come asking for your help when you have little time.’

‘Help for thy leg?’

‘It is an old injury made worse by a recent fall. For a long while I have eased the pain so that I might continue my work. But the comfort is now my curse.’ She nodded to Einar, who knelt to her, removing her boots. Black toes.

‘Thou hast eased thy pain with willow bark,’ said Magda. Far too much. As a healer, she would have been aware of the danger.

‘Yes.’

‘Magda trusts there was none in the physick for Celia Cooper.’

Asa hissed. ‘No. I know better. Who told you I attended Dame Celia?’

‘Her son. The one who helped thee.’

‘Then you know her husband attacked me.’

‘And that thou wast beaten afterward by two men. The same two who had been in Cooper’s yard and heard what Edwin said to thee?’

‘I did not notice them.’

‘A pity.’ Magda lifted a hand to stop Asa when she would defend herself. ‘Magda is not blaming thee. She would that thine enemies be apprehended.’

‘Thee, thine, never using me and I– I wish you would speak as others do.’

Gently Magda drew the nipple from the sleeping kitten, smiling down on her, grateful for her presence. Thou wilt be Magda’s balance, Holda. Meeting Asa’s petulant gaze, she said, ‘Rest. The blood must be allowed to drain from thy feet. A careful, gradual change in the physick to thicken the blood, but slowly. Thou wilt move little for a time. Better for thee to bide here rather than Old Shep’s.’

Relief softened Asa’s expression. So great had been her fear. Perhaps the journey from wherever she had been revealed to her the folly of her stubbornness. And the attack. This would not be easy. Magda knew her daughter, knew that soon she would regret revealing her weakness. Yet Magda was a healer.

‘I did not wish to intrude,’ said Asa. ‘You have little room.’

‘Easier if thou art here.’

‘And Einar?’

‘Magda prefers to keep a bed ready for one in need.’

‘Of course,’ said Einar. ‘I am settled in Shep’s cottage. It is close if I am needed.’

For what? Magda wondered. The young man interested her. It seemed he meant to bide there awhile, which meant he’d had his own purpose in seeking out Magda, something beyond escorting Asa.

‘That young woman who comes,’ said Asa, ‘the brown-haired one, is she your helper? Would I be taking her bed?’

‘Alisoun is Magda’s apprentice. She will not be needing her bed here for a while.’

‘But with the sickness coming–’

‘Others need her more at present.’

‘Perhaps I might attend you on your rounds, be of some use,’ said Asa.

‘Not until thou art out of danger.’ Even then … Asa had ever been a lazy healer, preferring to satisfy her patients with spells and charms – the very things to stoke the fires of the pious against herself and Magda. Indeed it appeared she had already caused suspicion with her drawing. And considering her incautious use of willow bark … No. Magda would not be so foolish as to accept her daughter’s offer. But that confrontation could wait.

‘What of the dead man?’ Einar asked. ‘You seemed to know the men who came. Will they tell the people in the city it was you who raised the hue and cry? Will there be trouble?’

‘Nothing Magda cannot bear.’

‘If I can help in any way,’ he said.

‘Do not worry.’ She returned her attention to Asa, who stretched her blackened toes toward the fire. ‘Dost thou accept Magda’s plan?’

‘With gratitude.’ She looked up at Magda. ‘Do not look so surprised. I am grateful. I have given you little cause to love me. Though I did bring your grandson to meet you.’

Einar rose. ‘I will fetch your things, Dame Asa.’

Asa reached for his hand, pressing it, but not in thanks, in warning.

Magda returned to her workbench, settling Holda in her basket so that she might gather what she needed for Asa’s treatment. Her daughter might deny her suffering, but Magda would do what she could to ease it.

‘Do you need help?’ Asa asked.

‘No. Rest now, daughter. Rest.’ She would need her strength. Magda saw far more suffering for her daughter in the days ahead.

Owen was no stranger to leave-taking. During his decade of serving Archbishop Thoresby he was often away from home, and, before that, he had made his farewells to his family in Wales, some for a long while, some forever. But this departure was different, leaving his children at Lucie’s family’s manor, Freythorpe Hadden, after a brief reunion. Both mother and father riding away. They did it for love of those they left behind, yet never had it so wrenched his heart.

It was not that Owen did not trust the stewards of the manor, Tildy and Daimon. He knew they would care for his little ones as they did their own, and they were most excellent parents. Nor would the couple be overwhelmed by the task, for Lucie’s dear friend Emma Ferriby would remain at Freythorpe Hadden with her sons until her husband arrived to take her to their own manor, bringing Alisoun Ffulford to look after Gwen, Hugh, and young Emma. Alisoun was not only beloved by all three children, but she was a skilled healer. All to the good. Yet with the pestilence awakening, Owen suffered continuous showers of needle pricks in his blind, ruined left eye. He prayed it was a natural foreboding in such times, and not a premonition, a knowing, riding away with a heart so heavy he wondered that his mount did not stumble for the weight of him.

Even so, his agony did not come close to that of his beloved wife. Lucie rode with eyes unfocused, her journey happening within. He knew the territory she traversed, her heart doubting their decision to leave the children at Freythorpe Hadden where the two eldest had safely sheltered from the last visitation of the pestilence, rather than bringing them along on their return to York and keeping them close, sheltered in their love. They had chosen what had served them before, a decision they had made that time because her firstborn, her son with her first husband Nicholas Wilton, had died in York of pestilence. But what if this time were different? Owen wished he might carry her worry for her, free her to enjoy the return to her work, her garden, and Jasper, her stepson and apprentice.

He owed her so much. Without her prescience he might have stayed too long at Kennington Palace, ignoring the unpleasant truth about why Prince Edward had summoned him. He had wanted to believe the purported reason, that the prince valued his opinion on the peace negotiations in Westminster. But almost from the moment they arrived in early May there were signs that was not quite true. Lucie had given a sympathetic ear to his complaints about how the prince avoided discussing the negotiations, turning the conversation to Owen’s friendship with Magda Digby, her respect for his insight, his curiosity about what she’d meant by that, whether she believed he had the Sight. It was Lucie’s account of her conversation with the king’s mistress Alice Perrers that had shaken Owen out of his denial.

On the surface, Dame Alice presented herself as a chilly woman of elegance, her gowns and jewels chosen to enhance her subtle beauty, her voice modulated to caress when in the presence of the king, express submission in the presence of the royal siblings and their wives; yet when Lucie had chanced upon her in a garden at Windsor Castle, away from eyes and ears, she found her warm and engaging, eager to ask about the plantings in the apothecary garden in York, what she might suggest for the king’s failing memory and increasing frailty, as well as her own exhaustion and creeping despair. Her candor was a rarity at court.

Alice – she had asked to be called simply Alice – had apologized for all of her questions. ‘Forgive me, but I hope you will soon return home and so I rush to ask now, when I may.’

Lucie admitted that she had been yearning for her garden, thinking of all that she would be doing in this season were she there, hoping that Jasper remembered all that she had taught him. But saying she hoped Lucie soon returned home suggested Alice was eager for their departure. Was she? ‘You hope we soon return home … Have we offended someone?’

‘Forgive me for being unclear. No, you have been the most delightful guests, patient with our demands and far more generous than we perhaps deserve. I wish it for you. I have seen how Prince Edward heaps praise on your husband, as he did me when his father began to fail. With Joan’s cunning assistance Edward has discovered how to worm his way into your husband’s affections. It happened to me. His praise feels like an intimate caress, touching on one’s deepest sources of pride. For your husband, those skills he believes few notice, his observations about the powers in the North gleaned in a decade of serving the archbishop and, lately, the city of York. But the truth is that Edward is most keen to ask of your husband the sorts of questions I have asked you. He had heard of the Riverwoman’s respect for the captain, that she believes his loss of half his sight opened his third eye, giving him the gift of a different sort of sight. He hopes that your husband can advise him in ways that no other man might. Yet I see how the captain squirms when asked about this, how he attempts to draw the prince back to matters of state. You must spirit Captain Archer away before he is hopelessly ensnared in providing a service that will endanger him in the dark times ahead, not only the weakening of the royal family but also the realm. We all know that the Death returns. Already there are rumors of it in the countryside. The Church sees the Death as punishment for our sins, a purging. Belief in those with special powers is heresy. When the prince dies – and we know from Dom Antony, who learned it from your Riverwoman, that he was poisoned too long to recover – your husband will be thrown to the wolves of the Church.’

Lucie had declared herself in Alice’s debt, and asked how the prince had heard of Magda’s talk of a third eye, for she was certain that neither Owen nor Magda would have mentioned that to the princess.

‘By all accounts Bishopthorpe Palace and the grounds were so crowded during her visit that it was easy for a listener to disappear among the servants and gardeners. Her Grace learned much that was not meant for sharing. The royal family sees all the realm as their concern, and therefore nothing should be hidden from them. It is all to the good of the realm, if it be in their interest.’

Lucie used that insight in asking Princess Joan to convince the prince that it was time she and Owen returned to York. She couched the request in terms of the good of the realm, that the return of the pestilence meant that their places were in York, she seeing to the health of the citizens as an apothecary, Owen keeping order in the city. She was not immediately successful, but gradually Princess Joan agreed and spoke to the prince, who concurred with their arguments and arranged an armed escort for their return journey.

‘I cannot have misfortune befall my eyes and ears in the North as he journeys through a countryside rife with fear.’ Prince Edward spoke of reports that the road was teeming with people escaping outbreaks or rushing home to families, peppered with prophets of doom standing by the wayside preaching fear and repentance or bands of thieves preying on the desperate.

The prince had not been wrong, and they had been glad of the addition to Owen’s two armed companions, Alfred and Stephen.

‘I did not think I would miss the prince’s men, but I do,’ sighed Brother Michaelo, riding up to join Owen.

They had parted with the prince’s retainers shortly before they reached Freythorpe Hadden, when one of the men fell ill with a fever. Lucie was quite certain it was not pestilence. No boils or blackened extremities. But she advised them to stay in the small priory in which they stopped that night. One of the brothers seemed skilled in healing. To be safe, Lucie, Owen, Michaelo, Alfred, and Stephen had spent a few nights in a farmhouse on the manor, watching for signs of fever. A difficult wait, with the children so close, but worth the peace of mind when they at last held the little ones in their arms.

‘At least the king’s men had wit, a quality sadly lacking in your own armed men,’ Brother Michaelo declared.

Owen laughed, and, to his surprise and delight, so did Lucie.

‘You miss all the trappings of the prince’s court,’ she said.

The monk sighed again, no doubt remembering the gorgeous fabrics and tapestries, the precious stones, gold, silver, mother of pearl decorating the most mundane objects. And the fragrance of the fires, the scents of lavender and rose, the minstrels who softly played in the corners. Elegant, luxurious. Her Grace, remembering Michaelo’s efficient management at Bishopthorpe, consulted him about her own household, seeking suggestions, including him in discussions with the officers of the wardrobe. For his pains, which he experienced as joys, she had sent one of the prince’s tailors to him to fit him out in a new habit of silk and linen. It was packed in the bag slung on his saddle, handled as if precious cargo. The gift had softened the agony of departure. Princess Joan played his strings with skill, but with respect as well. Indeed, all five in the party returned with gifts. In gratitude for the physicks and instructions to the household in preparing more, as well as advice on dietary changes, the royal couple presented Lucie with a crispinette of gold thread studded with pearls and a brooch in the shape of a linden leaf studded with emeralds and garnets, princely offerings. She also came away with fabric for the children’s clothes in appreciation for undertaking the long journey at such a time. Owen touched the hilt of the sword the prince had presented to him, marking him as a member of his household and that of his son when he passed away. Again he had been offered a knighthood, again he had declined. The prince had scowled for a moment, but then laughed that his wife had prepared him for Owen’s obstinance. ‘I respect you for it. And I trust you will always speak your mind, not what you believe will win you favor with me.’

‘To live in the midst of such beauty even for a short while was a great gift,’ said Michaelo, ‘and I repent being greedy for more.’

‘He would agree with you,’ said Lucie, nodding toward a raggedy man with burning eyes standing on a log at the side of the road shouting, ‘Repent, sinners!’ as they passed.

‘Blessed Mary, Mother of God, pray for all madmen who think themselves prophets,’ Stephen grumbled behind them.

‘I had hoped we had seen the last of them,’ said Alfred.

‘But of course they congregate on the road to York, a cathedral city,’ said Brother Michaelo. ‘They will flock to us, haranguing all the holy brethren and sisters in the city.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘This one certainly smells as if he has been in the hell fire of which he cries. The king’s men would have frightened him off.’

‘God help us,’ Lucie whispered.

Owen moved his horse close, reaching for her hand. ‘What is it, my love?’

‘I feel such dread of a sudden. What if Alisoun has fallen ill? Or Jasper?’

He knew that dread, but he reassured her. ‘It is easy when weary to succumb to the fear such men hope to incite. If anyone in our household were ill, a message would have been sent to Freythorpe.’

‘Yes, of course you are right, my love.’ Lucie did not sound convinced.

The guard at the gate welcomed them with clear relief, saying that the mayor and bailiffs would be glad of his return. As they walked their horses on to Micklegate, Owen prayed the trouble had nothing to do with his family, only his post as captain of the city.

The apothecary garden was a riot of color, the beds ordered, neat. There were tears in Lucie’s eyes as she turned round and round, smiling, thanking Jasper.

‘Alisoun worked in it as well. And Kate,’ he replied, shaking back the lock of fair hair ever in his eyes, standing straight and proud.

All three were well. And it seemed there was no sign as yet of the pestilence in the city except for a woman who returned from Doncaster already sick. God be thanked, though folk were flocking to the apothecary for the customary remedies against the sickness. Would the children have been better here? Owen shut the door on that thought as Jasper drew them into the kitchen, eager to hear about the court, the wonders they had seen. To Owen the fragrant kitchen was far more enticing than his memories of court. The boot bench against the wall, the hooks for cloaks and hats behind the door, the long table at which Kate stood, the kitten battling a small ball of string amidst the benches and stools by the fire – everything in the room conjured memories of family and friends tucked into its familiar warmth.

Suddenly shy, Kate stood back until Lucie rushed to embrace her. Then she burst into tears, sobbing how she had missed them all, asking after the children and her sister Tildy, wife of the steward at Freythorpe. She was more than a maidservant, she was part of the family, as was her sister.

‘Brown as berries and learning a great deal from your nieces and nephews about the countryside,’ said Lucie. ‘And all of them are learning much from the Ferriby boys.’ The pair were older, but had been kind to Gwen and Hugh and the others, including them in their work with the falconer brought from Emma’s manor nearby, asking them to lead them round the property, introducing them to their favorite places. ‘Has Alisoun been a help to you, Kate?’

‘I was glad of her company. But I saw her only in early morning and in the evening. Sometimes in the garden. She spent most of her time in the shop.’

Lucie looked to Jasper. ‘You have been so busy? Has Alisoun time to assist Dame Magda?’

‘She did that as well. But she’s been keen to be in the shop, learning how it works, ordering, how items are delivered, how stored. In the shop and the garden she worked with the plants she would not find in the woods.’

‘I am glad she benefited,’ said Lucie. ‘I hope she will not regret having agreed to now go to Freythorpe.’

‘I cannot speak for her,’ said Jasper, ‘but I think she’s proud to have your trust.’

Owen lifted the pitcher of hot water Kate had prepared and nodded to Lucie. ‘Time to shed the dust of the road.’

‘Just to warn you,’ said Jasper, ‘George Hempe asked to be sent word the moment you returned. Crispin Poole has stopped in the shop several times as well. They are both concerned about the death of Sam Toller, the Wolcotts’ factor, found floating in the river after a storm a week ago.’

‘Why is Crispin involved?’

‘Sam was found upstream, in Galtres. Magda sent for Crispin.’

Of course the pestilence was not the only threat to peace. But Owen had hoped for a moment’s grace. ‘They think it might be more than an accidental drowning?’

‘They said little to me. But from their eagerness to know when you would return, it would seem so.’

Without a word, Lucie took Owen’s free hand and led him into the hall and up the steps to the solar.

Dressed in fresh clothing, Owen stood on the landing listening to a soft rain on the roof, a fresh breeze drifting out from the empty nursery, slipping past him and dipping to find the long window in the hall below. A cart rattled by on the street, children screeched in pleasure, a bell rang, not a church bell tolling a death – not yet. The scent of damp earth rose from the window below. Kate hummed in the kitchen. A momentary solitude, something he had not experienced since leaving home. On the road he traveled in a company, and at Kennington Palace one never had a landing to oneself, for servants, retainers, clerks, dignitaries were ever rushing past, carrying on the business of the prince, of the realm. Yet it was there he had felt alone. Even Lucie had seemed out of reach when not wrapped in his arms, caught up in her own journey of discovery. Here he felt a part of the flow of life.

But he also felt the lack of his children’s voices, the sticky hands reaching for his, the clatter of their wooden toys tumbling down the steps. In time, God willing.

Lucie joined him, offering a bowl of ale. ‘Missing them?’

‘For a moment I felt it more than I could bear.’

‘I know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But already we are called to our work. Alisoun said she has much to tell us before she leaves in the morning. Are you ready to resume your role as captain of the city?’

As if he had a choice.

As the afternoon unfolded Owen felt the weight of his duties in the city pressing down. From Alisoun he learned that folk were turning against Magda, blaming her not only for the return of the pestilence but for all manner of misfortunes, from dough that failed to rise to Sam Toller’s death, some saying the healer made the river take him. He was not surprised to hear that Magda had not been within the walls for a fortnight. But when he learned that her daughter Asa was in York, he did wonder whether Magda’s absence had more to do with that arrival. Alisoun continued the litany of woes with an account of Celia Cooper’s illness, her husband’s accusations about Asa, which seem to have led to an attack as she hurried home. She spoke of the trouble in the Wolcott home, Guthlac’s decline under the care of the leech Bernard, how that might somehow be connected to Sam’s suspected murder.

‘I think Sam’s wife was the one pointing the finger at Dame Magda,’ said Alisoun. ‘Or it might be the leech Bernard.’

‘I am glad to hear that Celia is at St Clement’s, that is good,’ said Lucie, but she did not smile. ‘In the coming darkness I fear for those deprived of Magda’s healing presence. Have people come to you?’

‘They have. I saw a few, but I have made it no secret that I am going away. For the rest I recommended other midwives.’

‘Any change in how people behave toward you?’ Owen asked.

‘Some avoid my eyes when I pass. Custom in the apothecary is down, but only a little. With you here now, that all might right itself.’

Or it might not. He saw in Lucie’s frown that she doubted they would be untouched.

‘This Bernard. I feared he would cause trouble,’ said Owen.

He had not met him, but Lucie had. He’d come to the shop in early April, introducing himself as a physician new to the city, buying a common purgative, leeches, a headache powder, crushed gems. He had said little, vague about where he had lived before but eager to name important names in the city, particularly the Graas – Thomas Graa was the current mayor – and Wolcotts. He had not returned, but he complained to the guild master about the impropriety of a female apothecary. The guild master informed them that he had assured the newcomer that Lucie was a member in good standing and suggested he curb his tongue if he wished to be accepted in the city. They had heard no more of him, but it was enough.

‘Has Magda met him?’ Owen asked Alisoun.

‘No. All he knows of her is secondhand.’

‘There are plenty who will feed him all he wishes,’ said Lucie.

Owen steered them into the plans for Alisoun’s departure for Freythorpe Hadden the following day. She said she would spend the night at the Ferriby home so that they might depart at first light. Peter was eager to see his wife and sons who had been away at Freythorpe Hadden for more than a month.

‘Will you see Magda before you leave?’ Owen asked.

‘Yes. I have already packed all but the physicks that she is preparing. I thought to take my things to the Ferribys and go to Magda just before the closing of the gates this evening, I will be returning after they are barred, but I know the way along the bank at low tide.’

‘No need for that. Carn is the Bootham gatekeeper at that hour. I will tell him to expect you.’

‘Would you care to come with me?’

‘It seems I have plenty to occupy me here. I will see her after you leave. You say Asa is staying with her?’

‘Yes. Jasper says you once met her up on the moors.’

‘I did. She wished to have nothing to do with her mother. What would bring her here?’

‘I know little. She came with her son Einar. He is staying in Old Shep’s cottage. Since they arrived Magda hurries me away. Will you– Is there a way you might set a watch?’

‘Without Magda knowing?’ Owen shook his head. ‘But I will make a point of meeting them. What is it that bothers you?’

‘A feeling. I do not doubt Einar is Magda’s grandson – he has her eyes. But’ – she shook her head – ‘I cannot explain it.’

He found it all unsettling. ‘I will wait for you at Bootham Bar on your return, walk you to the Ferriby house,’ he said.

Alisoun made no protest.

Entering the York Tavern in late afternoon felt the final step in returning home, the innkeepers Tom and Bess Merchet awaiting Owen at the door. Tom stood back while Bess gave the traveler a welcoming hug.

‘I’ve kept Jasper, Kate, and Alisoun supplied with bread and ale.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said Owen. ‘And I’m grateful. Lucie is eager to tell you about life in Kennington Palace.’ She had laughed about it on the first days of the journey home, before the bleakness of their fellow travelers on the road had cast a cloud over all. As I walked round Kennington Palace I imagined how I might describe it all to Bess – the fabrics, the patterns, colors, gold, silver, pewter, gemstones.

‘And the little ones?’ Bess asked.

‘In good health, and enjoying the countryside.’

‘Praise God for that,’ said Tom. He pressed a tankard of ale into Owen’s hands and pointed toward Hempe and Poole sitting in the back corner. ‘They arrived a while ago. Grim-faced, as they have been many an evening of late, casting a cloud over all.’

Owen took a drink. ‘I tasted nothing so fine in the south, my friend.’

Tom nodded, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. ‘Ale’s not the only thing being brewed in the city at present. Someone’s sickening folk with a dark, ugly mash of lies. I’m that glad you’ve returned. You’re the one to find them and drain the poison before someone dies.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Look to the friends of the leech Bernard.’

Thanking him, Owen threaded his way through the crowd, smiling at greetings, promising to pass them on to Lucie, all the while noting the ones not smiling about his return. Not that he expected to be welcomed by all, but he thought perhaps he might find some who could speak to the moment, help him understand what lay beneath the ugliness besides fear of plague.

His friends rose to welcome him, teasingly addressing him as ‘Sir Owen.’ Laughing, he lowered himself onto a stool, raising his tankard in celebration. Bess came to top up all three tankards, then left them. Before they distracted him with questions, Owen told them all that he’d learned from Alisoun about Sam’s death, and Jasper’s sense that there was more to the story.

‘I have seen many a man with the back of his skull opened by a hard blow,’ said Crispin. ‘But I’ve never seen such an injury caused by drowning.’ He raised his one hand to ward off argument. ‘Debris in a rushing river might cause further injury, but to hit him just so, I don’t believe it.’

‘You think he was murdered, then tossed in the flood?’ Owen asked.

Both men nodded.

‘I doubted at first,’ said Hempe. ‘But now– There’s the matter of his wife. She claims he went out to confront Magda Digby, to accuse her of poisoning Guthlac Wolcott, and she never saw him again. Implying Magda punished him. Trouble is, two witnesses swear they saw him return that night, heard raised voices in the house, and then him storming out, her rushing out the door and calling down curses on him as he disappeared. “You will be the ruin of us!” They both agree she said that. The curses I left them debating.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle.

‘You’ve asked her about their witness?’ Owen asked.

‘Not yet.’ Hempe looked to Poole. ‘We want to be sure before we go to her that they are speaking the truth, not making it up to defend Dame Magda.’

‘I was the one to tell her of her husband’s drowning,’ said Poole. ‘She showed no surprise, only anger. I thought at the time it might be that his being gone for a few days had prepared her. But she wasted no time in accusing Dame Magda. Nor has any new information moved her to change it. I cannot help but wonder whether she’s protecting herself and her children with a lie. And there is the matter of the leech. My mother has lived all her life in York. I asked her whether she remembers any physician being the subject of so much gossip and she does not. “A physician’s reputation is everything. They are careful.” But not this man, a stranger in the city. I don’t like it. He’s too bold.’

‘I agree,’ said Hempe, ‘as does Lotta.’ Hempe’s wife. ‘As with Sam’s widow, Gemma, the opinion about Bernard falls into those who defend him – Bernard’s side, and those who distrust him – Magda’s defenders. You see why we want to move with care.’

‘And there is the arrival of Magda’s daughter Asa. Folk do not trust her,’ said Hempe. ‘Odd thing is, some say she is the source of darker rumors about Magda than I have heard before, accusing her of sorcery.’

‘Plague fear,’ said Crispin. ‘Even the sisters at St Clement’s are anxious. Dame Marian tries to lift their hearts in song, but she struggles to engage them.’

‘You have spoken to Dame Marian when you visit your mother at the priory?’ Owen asked.

‘She sought me out when she knew I was there to see Mother. Asked what she might do to support Dame Magda, who was good to her. I told her I would send word if I thought of aught, and if it seemed Dame Magda needed her help. She also said to tell you that she prays for you and your family every day.’

‘I am grateful.’ Owen sat back, drinking in all in. He was glad the nun had settled at St Clement’s. He and Lucie had taken her in when she first came to York and he had grown fond of her despite a rocky beginning. ‘Anything else?’ he asked when he’d ordered his thoughts. ‘Surely more has happened while I was away.’

‘The usual thefts, brawls, a missing child – found the next day, at her cousin’s,’ said Hempe. ‘A few folk accosted at Micklegate Bar for fear of bringing Death to the city, one a stranger, one a tinker familiar to most of us. Troublemakers hear someone has come north and accuse them of bringing sickness.’

‘A family down on the river below Clementhorpe is being shunned for rumors that the father returned from the south with the sickness,’ said Poole. ‘The mood is tense.’

Hempe nodded. ‘It’s a tribute to you and Dame Lucie that you caused no stir on your return.’

Owen had been thinking the same.

The business taken care of, they spoke of Crispin’s new wife, Muriel, and their daughter, Lucie. ‘Beautiful as her first godmother,’ said Crispin.

Owen smiled, both at the compliment and Crispin’s apparent delight in his child. It mattered not a whit to the man that she was the daughter of Muriel’s first marriage, her father murdered shortly before her birth. ‘I will tell her godmother you said that. Though I am certain Lucie will visit as soon as all is settled in the shop.’

‘Alisoun leaves tomorrow?’ asked Hempe.

‘She does.’

‘With Dame Magda avoiding the city, Alisoun will be missed,’ said Crispin. ‘But I am glad your children will be well cared for while away.’

‘Please tell Muriel that she is more than welcome to take your child to Freythorpe Hadden. It is a large home, and the Ferribys will be traveling on to their manor.’

‘I will tell her, and I know though she will be as grateful as I am, she will refuse to leave the city.’

Owen understood. Pushing away his own doubt about the wisdom of leaving his children in the country he had asked for more detail about the rumors regarding Magda when a cry went up at the door.

Tom Merchet had his hand on the shoulder of Timkin, an elderly man, not a regular at the tavern, who was holding his head as he cried out, ‘Old Bede’s house is burning!’

There was more, but Owen was already up and moving toward him, thinking of Bede’s widowed daughter Winifrith and her young children, who lived with him. He bent to the man who was now doubled over, gasping for air. ‘Did the family escape?’

‘Don’t know,’ the old man sobbed. ‘I saw folk running to the river calling “Fire!” Rushed after them, saw what was burning. Someone said the men who lit it called it a plague house. A lie!’

Owen needed to hear no more. In a moment he was pounding down Coney Street, his companions falling back – Crispin needed a cane. At King’s Staithe he joined Ned Cooper and several other young men who often worked for the bailiffs. He saw the flames now, licking at a much larger space than Old Bede’s small cottage. Several small buildings in the lane behind the staithe were on fire, moving close to a large warehouse.

He whispered a prayer of thanks when he spied Old Bede, Winifrith, and the two children among a group huddled together as they watched the fire. Ned had paused by them, his fellows rushing on to grab the pots and buckets that neighbors were carrying out of their houses and rushing down to fill them with river water.

Some men were hacking at a burning wall near a warehouse. Beyond them folk were stretched along the staithe and down on to the mudflats to reach the water at low tide, passing along filled buckets in one direction, empty buckets in another.

Owen grabbed two of the axe-wielders and tossed them toward the shore. ‘Water, you fools. Water is what you need.’

‘We are paid to watch the warehouse.’

Picking up an axe, Owen growled, ‘Water.’

The men stumbled off toward the staithe, sputtering curses.

A woman was wrapping Winifrith, Bede, and the children in blankets.

‘You can sleep with us tonight,’ she said. ‘Devils, the ones who did this. We’re all out on the street every day. We’d know if the great sickness was here. Someone did this for spite, they did.’

But who was the target? ‘Did you see anything?’ Owen asked.

Old Bede shook his head. Winifrith was busy with the children.

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘I knew nothing until my son shouted “fire”.’

‘Is your house far enough from the flames?’

‘I pray so, Captain. Go. Help with the fire. I will take them home.’

Four buildings burning, and the sparks were catching the thatch on a fifth. Owen directed a few buckets there, enough to wet it. ‘Keep watch on that,’ he ordered a young woman working the line, skirts hitched up, her eyes aglow with the fire. He moved through the crowd, helping where he could. So far it seemed everyone had escaped their homes, most of them working to put out the fire. Homeless, frightened, but safe. Owen helped the water-bearers until Crispin limped down to tell him that the fire appeared to be under control.

‘Hempe says leave it to the men,’ said Crispin. ‘You need to rest up. You will be busy tomorrow chasing down the culprit.’

After passing a few more buckets, Owen sought out the woman sheltering Old Bede’s family. ‘Did your son see who started the fire?’ he asked the woman.

A young man stepped forward. ‘I heard someone shout “plague house,” and “burn out the Death”, but there was so much smoke.’

‘Did you see or hear anything else that might help us find them?’

‘No. I can ask my friends. Should I come to you if I hear anything?’

‘Me. Or Bailiff Hempe. Good work, calling out your neighbors.’

Hempe waited beneath Ouse Bridge. ‘Ned’s taking charge for the night,’ he said ‘They will watch the fires, keep them low. That’s one of the Graa family’s warehouses at the staithe. His men complained that you ordered them about. I set them straight who you are. They whined that in the smoke they hadn’t recognized you. As if I believed them. They’d note the patch no matter the smoke.’ He spit off to the side. ‘I set them to stand the watch with Ned and the others, told them if I heard they’d wandered off I would fine them.’

‘Unwilling helpers can be more of a nuisance than a help,’ said Owen.

‘I don’t much care if they guard only the mayor’s warehouse. The others will be free to watch the rest.’

‘Clever.’

‘So off home with you.’

‘First I’m off to Bootham Bar to see that Alisoun gets through,’ said Owen, ‘then home.’

Owen carried a jug of Tom Merchet’s finest as he left the York Tavern. He’d changed into dry, clean clothes at home, answering Lucie’s worried questions about the fire. He stopped first at his friend Archdeacon Jehannes’s home, hoping to warn Brother Michaelo about the possibility of trouble on his nightly charitable rounds among the poor who slept on the north side of the minster. But Michaelo had already departed. Jehannes reassured Owen that he had told him of the uneasy mood in the city.

The jug was to be shared with Carn, on duty at Bootham Bar, a genial man known as the Scot for his brawn, his copper hair, and his ability to drink long into the night without effect. Except for the hair color, the rest had nothing to do with Scots blood in Owen’s experience, and Carn’s family had lived near York and guarded the gates for generations untold. Reaching the gate, Owen called out, ‘They tell me Carn the Scot appreciates a good ale. I’m here to test that.’

A rattle as the door unlatched. ‘Oh aye? Is that Captain Archer?’ Carn’s bulk filled the doorway as he peered out, a tuft of red hair standing up at the back of his head as if he’d been asleep. Yet he’d heard Owen. ‘What does a Welshman know of ale?’

Laughing, Owen entered, closing the door behind him as Carn led the way up narrow stone steps to a chamber that looked out on the far side of the gate. A small fire burned in a brazier, more than the space needed. No wonder the man had nodded off.

‘I’m awaiting Alisoun Ffulford.’

‘Bailiff said she’s to come through. You didn’t trust me to recognize the lass who’s seen to Molly and the babe she carries?’

Owen set the jug on the table. ‘As good an excuse as any. Drink from the jug?’

‘I can do better than that.’ Carn plucked two cups from a bench. ‘Will these do?’ He sniffed the air. ‘You were at the fire. Did everyone escape without injury?’

While pouring the ale, Owen gave Carn a dramatic account of the scene on the river. The guard noted that the location, so near Mayor Graa’s warehouse, meant all the city would be called upon to come forward with any information.

‘They’ll soon sort it,’ he said.

There was nothing like Tom Merchet’s ale to loosen tongues. Owen learned much of interest in the course of emptying the jug – Carn drinking most of it, though when someone pounded on the door the man was quick on his feet, descending to the street and returning in short order without breaking a sweat. He cursed the leech who was turning people against Magda Digby, and those who would believe such stories from a newcomer who hoped to steal business for himself. ‘Calls himself a physician, but I hear he does naught but apply leeches no matter the complaint. He’s naught but a barber.’ Of particular interest to Owen was a sighting of Thomas Graa returning from his Skelton property in the company of Gavin Wolcott on several occasions – a curious combination.

‘Not far from there, a family lost their bairn to the pestilence some days past,’ said Carn. ‘I suppose the mayor believes he is protected by his wealth, but the rest of us folk are uneasy about the Death coming so near. I’ll not go to Easingwold soon, of that you may be sure.’

Owen wondered about Magda. Would she be safe? And he meant to have a word with Mayor Graa on the morrow, about many things.

Brother Michaelo and Owen went their own ways at the end of Castlegate, the monk heading back to the minster close, Owen turning toward Edwin Cooper’s beyond St Crux.

The laborers at the cooperage pointed the way to their master, but warned that he was in a foul mood. Owen stepped into the workroom, his boots sinking into the thick carpet of sawdust on the floor, the light dim. He followed the sound of hammering and cursing to a workbench lit by an east-facing window where Edwin was pounding out bent nails. Over time Owen had heard many a tale of the man’s simmering anger at the world from his son Ned, but he had never had cause to observe it. He was debating whether it was best to leave and try another day when the man glanced toward the door, peered as if to be sure of Owen’s presence, then threw down the hammer with a muttered curse.

‘You know how to sneak up on a man, Captain Archer.’ Pulling off his work gloves he turned and leaned back against the counter, beefy arms folded across his thick middle, eyes hostile. ‘Been expecting you. Come to berate me for harsh words with the daughter of your friend the Riverwoman, I warrant.’

‘I am here at the request of Mayor Graa. I wish only to speak with you about your troubles concerning her.’

‘The mayor?’ He straightened, dropped his arms. ‘Well then, you might want to sit over here.’ With wary glances, the cooper led Owen to a table on which sat a jug and a stack of small wooden bowls.

Once they were settled, bowls of ale before them, Owen told the man that all he needed were details of what his wife suffered under Dame Asa’s care.

‘I knew something was amiss when the wife kept talking in her sleep as if awake, fretting about the children – on several nights the ones who died young, and claiming that I – nonsense, all of it nonsense, but fearful speech, excited and stumbling about her words as never before. And then she was all over bruised and bitten as if devils were pinching and biting her, cutting her. And I thought that was the cause of all that nighttime chatter, you see.’

‘Did Dame Celia complain of being hit and bitten? Did the servants speak of it?’

‘Nay, but we’re good Christians all in our house. Nothing like this has ever happened here.’

‘I understand Bernard the leech bled your wife for a time. He would have applied leeches and possibly small cuts to assist the bleeding,’ Owen said. ‘That would leave such marks.’

A grunt. ‘I suppose he did. But that was long before that woman trespassed. Infernal hag, claiming to heal Celia when all along she was stealing her soul.’

‘Why would she do that, do you think? Her mother Dame Magda was midwife to all your children, and you benefitted from her care not so long ago. What would cause her to turn against your wife?’

Edwin gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You think to twist my thoughts.’ He poured himself another bowl, but offered none to Owen.

‘Not at all. I am trying to understand.’

‘I’ve not yet told you the worst of it, the doll the maidservant found at the foot of my wife’s bed when helping her pack up for the priory. Celia refused to believe the Riverwoman’s daughter would put it there. Said the Riverwoman would never use such a thing. Who, then? She would not hear of blaming any of the servants. So who?’

‘Might I see it?’ Owen asked.

‘I burnt it straight away, cursed thing. I’ll not have such devil work in my home.’

Owen coaxed a description, but it was so vague as to be useless.

‘And then of a sudden my wife begs to go to the priory.’

‘I understand that was Dame Magda’s suggestion.’

‘You see? Crafty hag. She slipped in while I was about my business of a morning. It was Master Bernard came to me about it.’

Spying on the household? It seemed to Owen a curious undertaking for a leech.

‘Who recommended Bernard to you?’

‘Well now, it was Gavin Wolcott. He said he’d heard much good about him, and his father Guthlac liked him.’

‘Do you know how Gavin made his acquaintance?’

‘Master Bernard’s? Out of town, I think. Wolcott’s party told him of old Masterton’s death, that there was need for another physician in York. Saurian is getting old. Oft refuses to come out after dark.’

‘So Bernard was seeking work?’

‘I see what you’re doing. You want to push the blame on him. Well, the Riverwoman is your friend and I understand you must do what you can to protect her. And her spawn. But you’re captain of the city now, and you’ve a duty to us. You will find plenty folk with tales of her misdeeds. And in such times, with God testing us so sorely as might come to pass this summer, you must do your duty.’

‘Whose misdeeds – Dame Magda’s or her daughter’s?’

‘Matters not a whit. Both are witches.’

Arrogant little man. Owen controlled himself, forcing a blank face and a submissive nod. ‘Which is why I am here. If I might speak with your daughters and the servants–’

The man shook his head. ‘I’ll not have you upsetting them with your twisty questioning. I’ve told you all that we will say on the matter. I don’t thank you for pulling my Ned away from his work here in the yard to chase round after you and your mate Hempe. He’d never have helped the Riverwoman sneak into my home had you not filled his head with ideas.’

‘The Riverwoman’s daughter, you mean. Do you know that Ned sneaked her into your home?’

‘It was not my wife or my daughters. They are Christian women.’

Rising, Owen left with a mere nod of courtesy.

From Cooper’s house Owen headed to the King’s Staithe, where he found George Hempe talking to the laborers unloading a merchant ship.

‘Any witnesses to the start of the fire?’

‘No. Late in the day, no ship arriving at that time, the staithe was quiet, it seems.’ Hempe nodded at Owen’s expression. ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking. Well planned. And you? Learned anything?’

‘Little. You’ve spoken with the warehouse workers and the neighbors?’

‘I went round with your man Alfred. He puts folk at ease. No one noticed anything out of joint that day.’

‘Then it’s time I talked to Sam’s widow about the witnesses, watch her reaction. Was it you who spoke with her?’

‘Poole. As coroner for Galtres, where Sam was found. I warn you, Gemma Toller is a shrew.’

Owen found Sam’s widow working in a small kitchen garden behind her home, jabbing at the weeds as if thinking that would convince them not to re-seed. Dressed in a gown of faded blue, worn and patched, she was a handsome woman despite the hostile eyes and pursed lips. Bitter about her husband’s attentions to Beatrice Wolcott, the woman did prove coarse in her accusations, but even more so in pointing the finger at Magda as the murderer. Yet as she spewed her venom Owen was distracted by how she spoke, the hesitations and repeated phrases, slightly corrected, as if she were misremembering something she had learned by rote. She did have a helpful, hopeful piece of news – Lettice Brown was away at her daughter’s home outside the gates for her first lying in. By the time he left the house he was convinced that only her resentment toward Beatrice Wolcott and her fear of what would become of her and her children were real. Nothing in her claim that Sam accused Magda Digby of poisoning Guthlac Wolcott and that he was pushed into the river from Magda’s rock was true. Nor did she believe it.

The witnesses were quite clear about seeing Sam return that night, their stories matching, though one had seen more than the other, believing she had glimpsed someone, she thought perhaps two men, shadowing Sam as he strode angrily toward the staithe muttering curses. They now disagreed on the exact words Gemma had shouted after Sam, as well as his retorts, but both assured him that the man showed no signs of impairment as he stormed off, tossing back as many curses as Gemma showered on him.

And yet Gemma swore he had not returned that night. Why? Was someone silencing her, or did she have her own secrets?

Sunday morning mass in St Helen’s was crowded, folk bringing their children for blessings after a boy in the parish of St Denys’, Walmgate, collapsed with fever the previous afternoon, his feet blackening, and by midnight boils in his armpits burst. Within hours, he was dead.

The parish priest, Jerome, had taken Owen aside at the church door to assure him he would not preach according to the dictums of the archbishop, that he had prayed over it and God’s message had been clear, he was a shepherd of his flock and in such times the people needed their trusted healers, not only Magda Digby but all the midwives in the city.

‘The archbishop ordered you to preach against the midwives?’ Owen asked.

‘It is rumored he sent such a letter to the abbeys and priories, and therefore some of my fellows believe we should warn our parishioners against the women. But I will not do so.’

‘Bless you, Father. Our parish benefits by your pastoral care.’

Overhearing and apparently guessing his urge to withdraw and speak to Michaelo, Lucie slipped her arm through Owen’s and guided him in to stand among the faithful. ‘Time to confer after mass. We have much to pray for.’

Knowing she was right, Owen bowed his head and did his best to nudge his mind toward prayer.

With the pestilence now in the city they had left Jasper to see to the customers who would pound on the door of the apothecary despite it being the Sabbath, begging for the cures they believed had worked for them in past visitations. Brother Michaelo attended him. He had offered his services the previous evening when he had delivered copies of the archbishop’s letter and Dom Jehannes’s response.

‘I saw the terror in the eyes of the people in the minster yard, with rumors of sickness in Clementhorpe and Walmgate,’ said Michaelo. ‘And many still believe it was a plague house set fire near King’s Staithe. All the worst for Dame Magda’s absence.’

Owen had puzzled over that, noting that she was just without the walls.

‘A difficult journey for the sick,’ said Michaelo. ‘It is the solitary folk, those left behind, who huddle in the minster yard. They see to one another to a point, but they do not risk going outside the walls seeking help for fear they would be shut out.’ So the monk hoped to learn what he could by assisting in the apothecary. ‘Though I would as lief Dame Magda returned, I am glad she protects herself. I pray I might be of some good.’

Lucie had, of course, offered him simple supplies, which he accepted with gratitude. His charity work touched her. Owen saw it as an extension of Michaelo’s nightly work among the poor in the minster yard, and guessed he might embrace it as penance, atoning for the pleasure he took in his reception in Prince Edward’s household, his reluctance to depart for home. Still, Owen, too, was moved by the gesture.

The archbishop’s letter had also motivated Michaelo. Neville had mentioned the poor who slept in the minster yard, claiming that they offend the dignity of the great cathedral and should be removed. He’d also chided the Abbot of St Mary’s for feeding the poor outside the gate and encouraging the ‘vermin city’. No wonder Brother Michaelo wished to assist in the apothecary so that he might be of help to the poor.

The letter puzzled Owen. Alexander Neville was known to be a litigious man, but King Edward had expected his brother Sir John to prevail upon him to temper his behavior.

Dom Jehannes’s letter to the archbishop was, in contrast, quiet, respectful, quoting the pertinent parts of Neville’s missive as he expressed his concern that news of it might lead the parish priests to preach against the very healers needed as the pestilence returned. He suggested the resumption of penitential processions in the churches on Wednesdays, as had been done in the last visitation of the pestilence to the great comfort and soothing of souls of the people of York. He also addressed the issues of the poor, pointing out that the letter had included no suggestions as to how the religious communities might perform their Christian duty of giving alms to the poor if the poor were banished. Or perhaps a letter would follow suggesting where the people might be relocated? He added that if the purpose was to keep the pestilence from the city, it was already too late.

As Michaelo had said last night, quoting the Sermon on the Mount, Beati mites quoniam ipsi possidebunt terram. Owen had disagreed with putting Jehannes in the category of the meek, thinking him rather fierce in his gentle righteousness. But he did see the point, the meek inheriting the earth having always suggested to him that the humbler, gentler path created a more lasting change.

‘Will you still go to St George’s Field today?’ Lucie asked Owen as they joined the throng leaving church.

He heard in her voice that she already knew the answer. ‘Do you want me to tell Jasper to stay here?’

‘No. I encouraged him because I thought the fresh air and the activity would be good, and that has not changed. He’s been shut up in the shop so much and likely will be so through the summer.’ Lucie looked up at Owen as he held open their front door. She touched his face. ‘But of course I worry. For both of you. And just as I understand why you must go, I feel we must allow Jasper to make his own choice.’

Seeing the Riverwoman collect her basket and slip out the door, Lettice followed into the soft light of early afternoon, propelled by her sense of guilt. By confessing her fears to Dame Magda she hoped to prevent more violence. She should have gone at once to Bailiff Hempe to tell him what she had seen and what she believed it portended, the dread that had seeped into her bones, but instead she had run for that very terror.

At first when the healer paused Lettice thought it an invitation. ‘Dame Magda, I must tell you …’ But she stopped as the wizened woman seemed to sniff the air, then look sharply toward the river. ‘What do you–’

‘Hush,’ Magda said, ‘not now.’ She resumed walking, picking up her pace.

Lettice lifted her skirts and hurried to catch up. ‘Dame Magda, I must warn you …’

The healer paused, glanced back, her blue eyes sharp and clear. ‘Magda is needed elsewhere. Smoke. Danger. Not here. She will return when it is Helen’s time. Be of comfort to her and to the children.’

And she was gone, disappearing through the holly hedge toward the main track through Galtres.

At the home where Magda stabled her donkey the child’s father said he’d noticed a crowd on the riverbank near her rock.

‘Much talk of flames, but I saw none. Have a care, Dame Magda. I will escort you.’

‘Thou art kind, but there is no need.’

The crowd still clustered on the bank, milling about, mostly children, though some adults among them, all looking toward her rock and chattering.

‘Someone shot a flaming arrow onto your roof!’ one of the boys shouted as she approached.

‘The dragon’s breathing smoke!’ another added.

She saw it, a trail of smoke from her dragon’s mouth that twisted against the deepening blue of the evening sky.

‘The dragon ate the flame and breathed it out,’ explained a lass. ‘That’s why he’s smoking.’

From others she gathered an idea of what they had seen. A shadow on the far bank, a flaming arrow that appeared to pierce the roof but then tumbled off, the flame put out. It was then that folk noticed smoke streaming from the dragon’s mouth. As it still did, rising in slow, languid curls. How excited they all were, and anxious for her safety. She thanked them all and asked after Twig, the lad seeing to her kitten.

‘His mother waded out to fetch him. Found him fussing over the fire, worried that he had made a mistake in stoking it in preparation for your return at day’s end and caused the bit of smoke,’ said a woman standing on the bank. ‘He would not come back with her. Must stay with the kitten, he said. Though he did step out to gawk at the smoking dragon.’

As she set her things in the coracle on the shore they told her of the return of her own, assuring her it was back on the rock. She was a little disappointed it had not been Einar thinking better of falling into Asa’s ways. But there was time for that. She rowed herself over to the house so the lad might row himself back.

On the rock, she made straight for her door with a nod to the dragon and silent thanks. Within, she praised the brave lad and took the kitten into her arms, holding her close to her heart for a moment.

‘Back tomorrow?’ the lad asked.

‘Magda will consider and let thee know in the morn.’

She had shared a bit of broth with Holda and was relaxing by the fire with a sip of brandywine when Einar came calling.

‘So late?’ she said.

‘I could not sleep without admitting my guilt and apologizing for the theft of your coracle.’

‘Go on.’

He spoke of Asa and her insistence on leaving, though he claimed not to know what called her to the city with such urgency.

Partly true, but he knew far more than he cared to say. Still, she forgave him, for what was the point of begrudging him when the coracle was back in her possession? He swore he would not betray her in such wise ever again.

In such wise, but he clearly continued to do so in others.

‘Wilt thou accept Magda’s hospitality?’ She indicated a high-backed chair by the fire.

‘Your best chair?’

‘Thou art a hesitant guest.’ She offered him a dram of the brandywine.

He accepted with puzzled thanks, explaining that he had found work that had prevented him from coming earlier. He spoke of helping the fussy crow with the poor in the minster yard, where he had heard whispers of something happening on her rock.

‘They spoke of a wonder. Your dragon breathing fire.’

She smiled.

‘It is not true?’

‘Folk enjoy tales of wonder.’

‘On the riverbank I heard the lads speak of a fire. They would not tell me, not after I stole the coracle, and I paid three pennies for one to row me out here.’

‘Magda will speak to them. As for the fire, as you can see, the house is untouched.’

‘But someone meant to set fire to your home? I hoped to attend you in your healing visits, but I might be of more help guarding the house during the day.’

‘Why wouldst thou wish to attend Magda?’

His tongue loosened by a few sips of the brandywine, he spoke of his work with his father, and how he had assisted Asa in Lincoln, how good it felt to help Michaelo. ‘I hoped you might teach me more.’

At most but a partial truth. Magda had not sensed him cowed by Asa. Yet there was the one they followed. ‘Thou art called to be a healer?’

‘I believe I have some skill. I hoped with your guidance I might see whether that is true.’

‘Why Magda?’

‘We are kin. I have your blood.’

‘Skill is not carried by blood. It is learned.’ She was not ready to tell him about his great-grandfather and the slender thread of inheritance she sensed in him. Time for that if, once she knew him better, she thought he might make good use of it. It was only a valuable skill if used for good.

‘I thought–’ He looked down to his hands, seemed to notice how tightly he clutched them, spread his fingers wide. His great-grandfather’s hands. ‘Would you teach me?’ he asked.

‘Magda will consider it. Hast thou more thou wouldst speak of?’

He hesitated, then set aside his bowl and rose. ‘I am grateful you did not send me away.’

‘Art thou biding with Asa in the city?’

‘No. I thought to stay upriver.’

She would have a care when she went to the sanctuary in the early mornings. But she had a task for him.

‘Wouldst thou sleep here tomorrow night, while Magda is at a birthing? Feed Holda, see that young Twig stays only until thou hast returned from the minster yard.’

‘Thank you for trusting me to guard your home.’ His smile was as dazzling as Sten’s. ‘I will not fail you again.’

Magda grunted. ‘Easily said.’ The smile faded. He appeared to understand that he must prove himself. ‘Return tomorrow in the late afternoon to assure Twig thou wilt return at dusk. Bring thy bow.’

‘So you do fear trouble?’

‘Magda does not fear what is coming. But she is not certain when it will happen. Trust thyself.’

She observed his unease and understood, yet the test might show him who he wished to be.

The first timid knock came shortly after Owen departed. Lucie found a young mother at the door carrying a swaddled infant and holding the hand of a little boy. Begging Lucie’s pardon she asked if she might shop for what she needed out of sight of the eyes on the street.

‘Someone is watching?’

‘I saw no one, but I fear– Our priest said– Mistress Wilton, I would not ask but–’

Lucie waved away her apologies and saw to her request, sending her on her way only to find another customer waiting outside the door. And so it went, the most worrisome a man frightened for his wife; she had asked Master Bernard to help her after her water broke and he told her to have her mother deliver her child, that was women’s work.

‘But both our dams are long dead, Mistress Wilton. That leech would not help her, but he convinced her that midwives are all daughters of Satan and she would not let me send for one. Can you help her?’

Lucie explained that she was no midwife, nor was there any substitute for one. She named several and advised him to tell his wife they were known as pious women. As they were.

Silently she cursed Bernard and the gullible parish priests as yet another visibly frightened neighbor stepped up to the workshop door.

As twilight darkened the streets, Owen bobbed his head to Janet Fuller.

‘Captain Archer. How might I help you?’

He cleared his throat and glanced toward a woman lingering on the street, watching them. ‘My wife sends greetings, and something for Cilla.’ Her invalid daughter.

‘Bless Mistress Wilton. Do come in.’ As she closed the door she called out, ‘We have a visitor, Cilla.’

The young woman, for she was now surely Alisoun’s age though so frail, sat in a high-backed chair by the fire circle, her legs propped on a stool and wrapped in skins. In the past Janet had frequented the apothecary regarding her daughter’s frail health. Her husband was master of a small trading ship commissioned by the Graas and their partners between York and the Lowlands. She greeted him with a soft smile and a blessing.

‘Would you care for–’ Dame Janet began, but Owen shook his head.

‘Forgive my intrusion. I do not mean to stay.’

‘I pray that Mistress Wilton has not sent you across town in such times to ask after my Cilla. I regret that I have not been to the shop in so long. But my lodger–’

‘I do have this for Mistress Cilla.’ He handed Janet a jar. ‘A salve for her legs, to keep the blood up. But my main purpose is to ask about your lodger – the leech Bernard, is it not?’

A nervous nod. ‘Yes. But he is not in. I believe you might find him at St Denys’.’

‘Ah. Then I shall disturb you no more.’

‘Do come again soon, Captain,’ Cilla said.

‘I will do that,’ he said with a smile, and took his leave.

Owen found Bernard pacing before the altar in St Denys’, fingering paternoster beads. Stepping into the shadows, Owen watched him, getting a sense of the man when he thought himself alone. Lit by candles arrayed on the altar and a table to one side, the leech appeared broader in the shoulders than he had in St George’s Field. Was it simply that he now stood straighter than he had yesterday? As Owen watched, Bernard began talking to himself, a low murmur, the words unclear, but the tone sharp, and he stabbed a finger as if accusing his unseen audience. Owen slipped back out, then returned, pushing open the door with such force the candles danced, letting it slam behind him as he strode across the nave into the light.

Bernard spun round on his heels. ‘Captain Archer. You interrupt my prayers.’ He kept his voice low, affable, with a slight taste of disdain.

‘I am here on official business.’

Lowering his head as if to mask his glance round while he tucked the paternoster beads in his belt, Bernard took a few steps away from Owen, in direct line with one of the doors. ‘I cannot think what official business you might have with me.’

‘You have made a name for yourself in the city as the righteous savior of those who had fallen under the influence of Dame Magda Digby.’

‘I meant to do no such thing, Captain. The cooper made much of a passing comment.’ A slight smile, as if pleased with himself for blaming Edwin Cooper for the state of the city. ‘I had heard much of it reported by Gavin Wolcott.’

‘I doubt that.’

The man bristled. ‘Are you here to order me to apologize to the old midwife?’

‘I have come to ask about her daughter, Dame Asa. She was beaten today for her connection with Dame Magda. I was told you might know where she is lodging.’

‘Dame Asa, you said? I do not know the name, so I cannot think why someone would tell you that.’

Oh, but he did, Owen was sure of it, no doubt from Edwin Cooper. ‘Gray hair, an injury has her walking with a cane.’ The leech shook his head. ‘She was seen at your lodgings. Perhaps she is your landlady’s friend?’

‘Did Dame Janet tell you I would be here?’ When Owen did not respond, Bernard smirked. ‘You say she is the daughter of the pagan healer?’

The man mistook this for a conversation. ‘Are you aware that Guthlac Wolcott received the last sacraments today?’

Bernard hesitated, caught off balance. ‘Yes, poor man. He was so far in decline there was little I could do. That is for whom I prayed when you interrupted me. May God watch over Guthlac’s devoted wife. To lose him now, as the Death enters the gates of this great city …’ A sigh.

‘Guthlac wasted away over a matter of weeks, losing strength even to an inability to speak. What struck him down so swiftly? What did Dame Magda not see?’

‘His humors were awry. It is the common cause of mankind’s ailments, worsening as we age.’

‘And bleeding should have balanced his humors?’

‘I was too late. By the time I saw him the bleeding could but ease his suffering.’

‘There was nothing else? A tonic to strengthen his blood, a–’

‘Do you question my training? I know you are friends with the Riverwoman. Or is it your wife, the apothecary’s widow, whose conjectures you spout? Does she believe the midwife might have cured Guthlac?’

‘The late Archbishop Thoresby would have no other at his side when he was dying.’

‘A man on his deathbed should not be permitted to choose his healer.’

Owen was about to retort when he felt a shower of needle pricks over his scarred, sightless eye. Danger. Not here. ‘You are clearly of no use to me,’ he said.

‘Good evening to you …’ the leech was saying when the door slammed behind Owen.

As he stepped out of the church he looked round, getting a sense of where the danger lay. Not here, and it was not a threat to him. He hastened down the twilit streets toward home, the prickling gaining strength. He was almost running by the time he reached the garden gate, but the sense was still at a distance. Bootham. Outside Bootham. Magda Digby’s home. Shaking his head at Kate’s offer of food, he plucked his bow and a quiver of arrows from the hook by the door, and asked her to tell Lucie he was headed to Magda’s.

At Bootham Bar, Carn eyed Owen’s bow. ‘You’re wise to head out armed. Folk gathered out there one by one, men and women. A cart went through earlier and stopped beside the road. When folk started gathering round it and moving away with torches in hand I sent for the bailiffs. Hempe and several young men are out there now.’

‘How many with torches?’

‘Twenty, thirty. I could not see all of them from the tower, but they were moving toward the river, torches lit.’

Outside the gate Owen moved off the road toward the river, seeking out a high spot where he might look out over the shacks of the poor toward Magda’s rock. Shouts, bobbing points of light, but the only large fire he could see from his vantage point was in the center of the settlement and it was clearly a bonfire. Stringing his bow, Owen hooked it over his shoulder and moved toward the disturbance. He collected a growing gaggle of children nudging one another and whispering his name. One of them told him that Twig was out on the rock, caring for Magda’s kitten.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said, hurrying off.

He came upon a woman yanking a scrawny lad by the arm and shouting about her ruined dress, which was far too fine for the settlement. From the boy’s arm dangled a sloshing bucket.

Owen grasped the woman’s arm and squeezed. ‘Unhand him and return to your home.’

She let go the lad, glaring at Owen. ‘I will report you to the sheriff!’

Stepping out of range of the lad’s swinging bucket, having caught the stench of urine and shit, Owen grinned. ‘You are most welcome to reveal that you were here, threatening these folk who have so much less than you.’ Releasing her, he continued on.

‘Captain!’ Alfred hastened to join him.

‘One of the lads is on the rock. Have you seen him?’

‘No. Someone just started rowing over, then fell back in the vessel.’

Owen pushed his way through the crowd, Alfred on his heels. They passed a line of folk passing empty containers to two women standing in the shallows to scoop up river water and hand the filled containers up another chain that disappeared among the shacks.

‘Back there they add piss they’ve saved. The Riverwoman’s idea.’

Clever. Glancing toward a shout he saw one of the small shacks take light, burning brightly. But not clever enough. He called to the line of folk with buckets of water and pointed to the fire. The snake turned. The air was thick with smoke now and he cursed at his intermittent blindness with one good eye.

A small cluster of lads about Jasper’s age stood on the shore, one of them holding a torch, several others holding buckets, facing a group of the rioters with torches who were shouting, ‘Heretic!’ ‘Curse!’ ‘Burn her!’ ‘Burn the dragon!’ A cleric appeared to be leading them.

‘Is there piss in this water?’ Owen asked one of the lads. At the nod, he plucked the bucket from the lad’s hands and drenched the cleric. The fool reared back, cursing most unclerically, his torch sputtering. Grabbing another bucket, Owen aimed at the man who stepped up to take the cleric’s place, and, when his mouth was wide open, flung the water and piss. Choking on it, the man dropped his torch at the water’s edge. Owen plucked it up and waved it at the shouting group as he backed them into Hempe, Ned, and several others waiting to chase them back to the city. Once that commotion moved away Owen headed upriver toward several men who were running to keep up with Magda’s coracle, spinning wildly in the incoming tide. Two of them waded out as the current swung the vessel close, trying to grab it with a long hook. But the current shifted and spun it away. They shouted for the injured rower to rise up and row. Squinting in the twilight, Owen watched the man struggle to sit up. Lifting the torch to illuminate the would-be rescuers, Owen called out to the man in the coracle explaining what they were attempting. Listing to one side, the man grabbed the oar and began to row toward the light, at last bringing it close enough they were able to snag it with the hook. Handing the torch to his neighbor, Owen went into the water to help pull the boat to the shore.

Only when Owen lifted the wounded man and set him upright beside him did he recognize Einar. An arrow pierced his upper left arm. He held him steady until he found his feet and caught his breath.

‘Bless you all,’ he gasped.

‘You gave us a good chase,’ one of the men said, laughing with relief.

‘Can you describe what happened?’ Owen asked.

‘I was rowing out to the rock. Was shot from behind.’

‘Could you see who?’

‘No. Shoved the oar inside and bent down to shield myself.’

‘Come. I will row you to Magda’s.’

Alfred had joined them. ‘The shot came from our side of the river,’ he said.

‘Find out if anyone saw another with a bow,’ said Owen. ‘Send someone to tell my wife I will watch through the night. Those who live here, see to your homes. I will guard Magda’s.’

Launching the coracle, Owen rowed out to the rock using the incoming tide to assist.

Twig greeted them at the door cradling the kitten. ‘How can I help?’

‘Sit with Einar on this bench until I call you in.’ He would need to search Magda’s secret store for brandywine, pastes, and lotions, as well as a tincture to add to the wine. Once he had it all assembled, he stepped outside to fetch them. He found Einar relieving himself in the river. Twig stood near him facing toward the shore. Several homes were alight. Damn those who had so little care for the poor. Damn them.

‘Is yours aflame?’ Owen asked.

‘I don’t think so.’ Twig hugged the kitten.

‘God be thanked. Come. I will need your help.’

The lad seemed glad to turn away from the destruction.

While Twig heated a pot of water and searched for sufficient rags, Owen settled Einar on a cot near the fire, giving him a cup of brandywine fortified with the tincture to help with the pain.

‘Sip some of that.’

By the time he had mixed a paste for the wound, Einar was asleep. Owen cleaned the wound and examined the arm, the direction of the arrow. Calling Twig to him, he tested the strength of his grasp. Good and strong. Confident the boy could keep the patient from flailing, or at least dampen the blows leveled at his tormentor, Owen settled on the procedure, waking Einar to explain the steps in full and assigning tasks. The lad asked no questions, simply gathered the things he would need and nodded when ready. Einar assured Twig he would do his best to cooperate.

The midwife’s injuries would prevent her from working for a time, but none of them so serious Owen could not reassure both Edith and her husband John that all would be well. His greatest challenge was convincing John to hold her steady in the chair while Owen set her broken arm. It was not a bad break, and with a small, albeit painful, adjustment she would heal well. When that was accomplished, he completed the cleaning and wrapping of her head wound.

While Owen worked Edith described her attackers – two large men, one sounding much like one of the workers in Graa’s warehouse. Nothing to connect them with the cleric who assaulted Asa except in the act. He would seek out the warehouse worker later in the day. She mentioned Bernard, accusing him of inspiring the trouble, expressing her sympathy for Janet and Cilla Fuller– ‘Imagine listening to his hateful ideas all the day.’

‘You and Dame Janet are friends?’

‘Of a sort. I have helped her with Cilla from time to time.’

‘Did you know her before she was married?’

‘No. She came to the city when she wed Jack.’

Someone knocked on the door. John went to answer it armed with a hefty piece of wood. ‘Oh. Benedicite, Brother Michaelo.’

Begging their forgiveness for intruding, Michaelo said he had a message for Owen when he was finished.

‘I am finished.’ Owen instructed John to come to the shop on the morrow to tell Lucie how Edith fared through the night. She would then provide him with what he needed to help his wife continue her healing.

‘Come along with me,’ said Owen as he strode away from the midwife’s home. ‘I believe you might make my next stop easier.’

‘Of course. But you need to know. Jehannes received a response from His Grace the Archbishop. He assures him that the letter to the abbots and priors was meant merely as a suggestion, and commended him on the suggestion of processions. As Archdeacon of York he gives Jehannes full authority to do what is best. Indeed, he would appreciate his smoothing things over with the Churchmen in the city.’

‘He wiped his hands of us and put the burden on Jehannes,’ said Owen. ‘In short, he disowns us?’

‘It would seem so. Might I trouble you to tell me our destination?’

‘The Fuller home, where Bernard is lodging. Dame Janet might find your presence reassuring. She seemed anxious last night. And you might have a word with her daughter Cilla, who made a point of inviting me to return – soon.’

‘Ah.’ After that, they both fell into their own thoughts as they headed for Walmgate.

Bernard answered the knock, narrowing his eyes when he saw who it was. ‘Captain Archer. And a monk?’

‘Brother Michaelo,’ said Owen. ‘Have you remembered meeting the woman of whom we spoke last night?’

‘You spoke. I–’

Dame Janet peered round him, then stepped between Bernard and the door. ‘Captain Archer. Brother Michaelo. Do come in from the rain.’ She glanced at Bernard with a shake of her head and shooed him out of the way. As they moved past her she patted her tidy kerchief, brushed her apron, then planted a fierce smile on her face.

‘I pray you forgive me. I was just sweeping out the kitchen. Might I bring you some ale while you confer with Bernard?’ Her smile tensed as Michaelo crossed the room to greet Cilla.

‘It is you with whom I wish to speak, Dame Janet,’ said Owen.

The leech stepped between Owen and Dame Janet. ‘See to the girl, Janet.’ The woman averted her eyes and retreated a few steps.

‘I was mistaken yesterday,’ said Bernard. ‘Dame Janet does not know this woman you asked after.’

‘And who was that, Bernard?’ Janet asked.

‘Asa,’ said Owen, ‘a healer lately arrived in York. She was beaten in the minster yard yesterday.’

‘Asa?’ Janet shook her head. ‘I do not know the name.’ But she looked long at Bernard, her expression one of loathing.

He wandered away.

‘I see. Then I will leave you to your day, Dame Janet,’ said Owen. ‘I pray you forgive the intrusion.’

‘Not at all, Captain,’ she said, suddenly friendly. ‘I pray your family are all safe and sound? The little ones well?’

‘They are in the country for the summer.’

‘I am glad for it. I worry for my husband, that sickness delayed his ship. Pray for us, Captain.’

Michaelo had made the sign of the cross over Cilla and joined Owen. ‘I will pray for your family, Dame Janet.’

‘Bless you.’

Out in the street, Owen moved through the rain pondering the words, the gestures, maddened by his certainty that he had missed an opportunity.

‘Apparently Bernard is Cilla’s uncle.’

‘What?’ Owen stopped and stared at Michaelo.

‘Though she had not met him before he appeared a few months past she had heard her parents speak of him. She recalls them referring to him as “Alan the snake”, but her mother tells her she has confused him with someone else. Cilla thinks not, and prays you find a way to return when “the snake” is away.’ Michaelo spoke as if in the midst of a conversation, his mouth betraying his amusement as Owen looked at him in disbelief. ‘But she could not suggest a time when you might be certain of that. She also mentioned that her father had been long away, and would be surprised that “the snake” was poisoning the household. That is another bit of news. Jack Fuller’s ship has docked at King’s Staithe and she believes her father will soon evict her uncle.’

‘I am in your debt,’ Owen said with feeling.

‘Mm … yes. Will that be all?’

‘You are welcome to accompany me to the mayor’s warehouse near the staithe, if you can spare the time.’

‘Of course. If I can be of help.’

‘I would be grateful.’

Michaelo grinned.

They were soon caught up in the flow of folk and carts leading to Ouse Bridge, attempting to cross through them to descend to King’s Staithe. Michaelo lifted the hem of his habit, protecting it from the path the steady rain had turned to mud.

On the staithe Owen noticed Jack Fuller helping another carry a load down the gangplank from a small ship. Considering the well-muscled man, Owen guessed he would easily put Bernard in his place.

Brother Michaelo cleared his throat. ‘Is that Dame Asa?’

At the bottom of the gangplank, just out of the way, Asa leaned on her cane, watching Fuller. As he set down his burden she gestured to him, but he turned back to the ship.

‘It is.’

‘She looks nothing like her mother,’ said the monk. ‘Now Einar, something in his eyes hints of her blood.’

Owen agreed.

‘Whatever injuries she suffered healed sufficiently for her to risk the rain and mud,’ Michaelo noted.

‘Would you follow her?’

‘I thought you wished– Of course. Though I am not what one might consider inconspicuous.’

‘Nor am I.’

Michaelo glanced at Owen’s patch. ‘No, that you are not.’

‘After the warehouse I mean to return to the apothecary.’ Nodding to Michaelo, Owen continued on.

In the warehouse across the way he searched the faces for the one he suspected of beating the midwife, but he was not among the workers.

‘Might be at the staithe. Ship’s come in,’ said the man who had been helpful before. ‘His name is Duggan.’

‘I did not see him there,’ said Owen. ‘Where does he live?’

‘Don’t know, don’t want to know. I keep my distance from trouble.’

In the lane in front of the apothecary a cluster of women hailed Owen, asking whether he had caught the men who had beaten the midwife Edith.

‘We are still searching. But I assure you Dame Edith will make a full recovery.’ He could do nothing about their disappointment except mirror it in his gut.

Inside, Jasper was placing small packages in a woman’s basket, reviewing with her what they were and how she was to use them. Juniper for a protective fog in the house if one of them should fall ill. A poultice to draw the poison from the buboes, a lotion to ease the pain. Yes, he had added the emerald powder as she had requested. A plaster for the chest. A strong syrup for cough. A scented beeswax candle for the bedside. There was more in the packages already placed in the basket before he arrived, far more than they would have the time or presence of mind to use once the sickness struck. But folk traded ideas, and some hoped to use everything possible. As the woman counted out a considerable amount of money, Owen noticed Lucie gesturing to him from behind the beaded curtain separating the shop from the workroom. He bobbed his head to the customer and joined Lucie.

‘Have you made a fortune today?’ he asked.

‘Pestilence is sinfully lucrative for an apothecary,’ said Lucie, ‘but a fortune, no.’

‘Much charity?’ He knew his wife. If the customer could not afford what they needed, she would pretend to tally what they owed and keep a running count, but when – if – they came asking for the total she would shoo them away.

‘A few who could not pay.’ She kissed his cheek and touched his bearded chin. ‘I heard that Guthlac Wolcott is dead, and the burial tomorrow.’

‘From whom?’

‘One of the butchers was praying in the church when a servant came for the priest. He hurried here for more protections from the pestilence. I assured him that Guthlac was not a victim of the Death, that he has been dying a long while. But he was too frightened to be comforted.’

‘May Guthlac rest in peace.’

‘How are Einar and Magda?’

‘She is untouched by the violence. Einar will mend. Will Jasper miss you if you come with me to the kitchen? I have much to tell you.’

As he sat by the fire waiting for Lucie, Owen absently stroked the kitten on his lap. Kate set a bowl of ale beside him. He would eat after he had discussed with Lucie all he had learned since their last long talk. But it was Michaelo who arrived first, pushing back his hood and running his long fingers through the hair that circled his tidy tonsure.

‘At the risk of disrupting your dinner …’ He paused in the doorway.

‘Come, sit, tell me,’ said Owen.

Removing his shoes, Michaelo joined Owen by the fire, holding his hands to the heat, then tucking them into his sleeves. ‘I will not stay long.’

‘You followed Asa?’

‘More than that. After you left, the men on the staithe grew frightened when Jack Fuller failed to reappear, muttering about him being the only one not struck down by illness on that small ship, arguing about whether he seemed ill, none of them willing to go up to see what had happened. So I went. He was on the deck, bent over, breathing hard, his clothes soaked with sweat, his neck hot to the touch. When I called from the ship for someone to come help me take him home, only Asa responded.’

‘She climbed the gangplank with her cane?’

‘She had help. While I debated whether to assist her or stay with Fuller to keep him upright, Janet Fuller hurried forward to assist Asa, calling shame down on the cowering men who were suddenly eager to help. We transported him to his home in Walmgate in a cart borrowed from the staithe, Asa and I leading the donkey, Dame Janet in the cart with her husband and a small chest Jack refused to leave behind.’

Lucie had slipped in while Michaelo told the tale. ‘All the men in his ship are ill?’ she asked.

‘Most are dead.’

‘Deus juva me.’

‘Was Bernard there?’ Owen asked. ‘Will he care for Jack?’

‘Janet promised her husband that her brother would not touch him. Asa and Janet will care for him.’ Michaelo nodded at Owen’s surprise. ‘She said God brought her here at this time for a purpose. Dame Magda had supplied her with what she would need to help those her mother could not.’

‘Despite the beating the other day?’ Lucie asked, taking a seat beside Owen. ‘I pray Bernard does not mistreat her. Unless he has moved out?’

‘I did not see him, but I heard nothing of his moving out.’

‘Perhaps someone should watch the house?’ Lucie suggested. ‘I hope she knows that we will provide anything they require.’

‘Anticipating your generosity I already told her to send someone to you for anything she needed,’ said Michaelo. ‘I do not think she will be leaving that house for a day or two. If it is the pestilence, Jack Fuller will die quickly. And then, I fear for Mistress Cilla. She is already frail.’ Michaelo rose. ‘I will leave you now. I know you have much to discuss.’

Owen escorted him to the door. ‘You are not worried for yourself?’

‘I have lived through numerous returns of the Death. My bile is too bitter for its tastes.’ A smirk.

Owen felt Lucie’s eyes on him as he turned from the door. It lifted his heart to see the laughter in her eyes. ‘He might be right,’ he said.

She burst out laughing. ‘Pray God he is.’ It was but a momentary jollity. ‘I do not think I should like to lose him so soon.’ Already her eyes were sad. ‘So many dead in the ship.’ She crossed herself.

They adjourned to the hall, carrying in ale. Kate would bring in the food.

Settled near the window, Owen began his tale with an account of what had happened at the river the previous evening, Einar’s injury. Alfred would have told her much of it, but he knew she would want to hear his account. And then, after answering her questions, he told her of Lettice’s fears regarding her husband’s death, particularly his treatment by Graa’s warehousemen and Gavin Wolcott, and continued on to Beatrice’s pregnancy.

‘I had not expected that,’ said Lucie. ‘Poor Lettice, I can understand her fear. As their laundress she might very well be silenced. That alone …’ Lucie paused, frowning down at her ale.

‘What is it?’

‘I wonder whether you might have been better to take heed of Gemma Toller’s distrust of Beatrice’s intentions with her late husband. Is it not possible that Sam was the father of her child?’

‘Possible.’

‘Or you are wrong about Gavin’s feelings for her. She is a beautiful woman and far closer in age to him than to his father.’ Lucie glanced up. ‘Did I understand Brother Michaelo to say Bernard is Janet’s brother?’

He told her about Einar’s calling Bernard ‘Alan’ and what Michaelo had learned from Cilla.

‘A snake. Dear Cilla,’ said Lucie. ‘She is so like her mother in everything but physical wellbeing. I tried every tonic I could imagine, as did Magda.’

‘What is wrong with her?’

‘A faulty heart perhaps. She has ever been weak, any exertion robbing her of breath in short order. Her mind is sharp. When she was younger Janet and Jack arranged for a tutor to come each morning.’

Owen’s thoughts turned to his eldest daughter. ‘Gwenllian will be missing her classes.’ Through winter into spring she had attended a small school for girls. He took Lucie’s hand. And so they sat for a long while as the rain gathered strength out in the garden.

‘Alan.’ Lucie sat forward. ‘Janet’s brother. He was in service in the household of a wealthy man in London. She never mentioned him but to say an unpleasant encounter reminded her of him. When I laughed at her calling him a leech, thinking it cleverness, she admitted that he was more properly a barber, Alan’s master having trained him in bloodletting, but he was a blood-sucking worm.’

Owen had noticed how Janet spoke her brother’s name as if taunting him. He had thought it was her omission of the Master before it. ‘Why would he change his name?’

‘Driven from his post? If he posed as a physician there as he has here but has in truth little training … Owen, what if Guthlac need not have died? What if his decline and death are the fault of a man posing as a physician?’

‘We cannot prove that.’

‘But if his London master discovered Alan posing as a physician in London …’

‘And so Alan fled and changed his name to escape prosecution.’

‘Yes.’

‘We might be wrong.’

‘But if not. Owen, we must stop him before he causes more deaths.’

‘And how to you propose to do that?’

‘How indeed?’ Lucie folded her arms and lay her head down on the table.

Owen rubbed her shoulders, kissed her neck. ‘Meanwhile there is still Sam’s murderer to hunt down. I will try to speak with Gemma.’

‘But you’ve not eaten.’ Lucie sat up, glancing at the door. ‘Kate did not bring the food.’ She was up and rushing to the kitchen before Owen caught up with her thoughts.

He found her with an arm around Kate, who stood in the doorway to the garden, her shoulders heaving with her sobs. Out in the rain stood her siblings, the twins Rose and Rob. It was clear from their faces they had brought unhappy news.

‘Our sister Meg. The Death has taken her and her mistress,’ said Rose when Owen drew them into the warmth of the kitchen.

Meg was Kate’s younger sister by a year, maidservant to an elderly widow in Fossgate.

Owen left them to Lucie’s care and carried the food out to the hall, then called them all in to nourish themselves as they might. He fetched Jasper from the shop, seeing to a last customer before shutting it for a time. The Death walked the streets of York. They all needed their strength.

Owen was not entirely pleased to see Brother Michaelo sitting by the garden window in the hall as he headed into the kitchen.

Lucie looked up from the bowl of warm water in which she was washing her hands.

‘A timely arrival. I have just come from the workshop.’

‘I see we have a visitor.’

‘He said he will not stay long,’ said Kate. ‘He wishes to speak with you about Einar. To warn you. How is Goodwife Keene?’

‘She is shaken,’ said Owen. ‘I think midwives will be hesitant to attend births until folk calm, and I cannot blame them. The city might promise protection, though even if the council would agree – which is doubtful – we cannot be everywhere.’ A weariness wrapped him and pulled him down as he took off his boots. He wanted nothing so much as to slump up to bed and sleep. Yet he knew sleep would elude him. His mind was noisy, desperately racing about trying to disentangle the threads of thoughts and order them. ‘It is too easy to point at a female healer in accusation. Yet a man such as Bernard leaves a trail of ruin behind him and all are silent.’

Lucie walked over to take his hand. ‘It is ever so. And men of the Church are ever ready to point at women and absolve men. Come. Let us hear Michaelo’s news.’

Michaelo set aside a bowl of ale and rose with grace from his seat near the fire in the hall, bowing to them. ‘Forgive the intrusion, but I felt you should hear of Einar’s behavior tonight.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Distress. I told him how Asa had walked onto the ship to attend Jack Fuller. How she had called for help guiding him home, and then stayed with him even though Master Bernard might return and take umbrage at her presence. He groaned and kept muttering, “No, no, I must stop her.” Thinking to comfort him I told him I understood that he feared for her, that the Death might take her. But he corrected me. “She means to punish him for using her and then throwing her aside.”’

‘Punish Bernard?’ Owen asked.

‘Yes. He would say no more, but his mind was not on the folk we attended tonight. I wished he would go to her.’

‘And did he?’

‘No. He went to Dame Magda. Seeking her advice.’

‘I hope that is true.’ Another thread tangling the riot in his head. Bernard had used Asa? He remembered what Magda had said, that the leech might have sought Asa’s advice. ‘I mean to call at the Fullers in the morning. After Guthlac’s burial.’

‘Have a care,’ Michaelo said softly. ‘I would not have you fall ill.’

‘Nor I,’ said Lucie.

Once again he promised not to cross the threshold. ‘I am moved by your concern, Michaelo.’

‘You have much work to do,’ said the monk.

‘I do. And there will be much more.’ He told him about the incident with Goodwife Keene. ‘We have gone far beyond a few troublemakers.’

‘As I said, you cannot be spared.’ Michaelo rose as if to leave.

‘Stay a moment,’ said Owen. ‘There is something I would like you to hear. It will not take long.’

Kate knocked, then entered with a jug of ale and two additional bowls. ‘I thought you might have need of this. And I will bring bread and cheese if you like.’

‘Bless you, yes,’ said Lucie.

Settled near the window for the refreshing evening breeze, Owen told them of what he suspected regarding Bernard.

‘A physician in London. The need to flee,’ Michaelo said. ‘You are thinking of Monsieur Ricard’s execution for treason against Prince Edward. That Alan was in his household and changed his name as he fled.’

‘Am I too eager to make a connection?’ Owen asked.

‘Eager?’ said Lucie. ‘I cannot think you welcome such trouble in the city. I, too, thought of him.’

‘I question the prince’s choice in men for the search,’ said Michaelo. ‘That they would lose the trail when he has done everything to be conspicuous.’

‘Not his intention, I think,’ said Owen. ‘At St George’s Field he exchanged angry words with Gavin Wolcott, accusing him of endangering him by spreading rumors about him.’

‘Gavin Wolcott,’ Lucie whispered.

‘There is more.’ Owen told them all that Gemma had confided, as well as Magda’s news of Beatrice and Lettice’s fears.

‘A web,’ said Lucie. ‘All spun by the same spider?’

‘Or several conjoined for mutual benefit,’ said Owen.

‘Shall I compose a letter to the prince?’ asked Michaelo.

‘I would hope to have this resolved long before a letter might reach him, he acts, and his men arrive, but yes. At least he will be alerted. Thank you for offering.’

Michaelo rose, bowed. ‘I shall bring the letter in the morning. We might discuss it while we watch the burial.’

When he was gone, Lucie began to pace. ‘Asa and Bernard, or whoever he is. He was here weeks before she arrived with Einar. Can that mean something?’

‘I wish I knew.’

Lucie continued to pace. Owen settled back to fill his stomach.

‘The day went well?’ he asked.

‘I am pleased to say the shop was busy, and no one made a fuss about waiting. I turned away a few who asked me to act as midwife, assuring them that there were sufficient experienced midwives in the city. But hearing of what happened to Goodwife Keene I wonder if they will hesitate to attend births until – until what? I pray for the city.’

‘You have all you can do to care for the shop,’ said Owen. ‘You cannot add midwifery to your tasks.’

‘No. Nor was I tempted.’ She held out her hand. ‘Shall we go to bed, my love? I missed you last night. After I show you how much, we might talk more.’

Owen thought that an excellent plan.

‘Let me help you with that. Oof! That’s a load.’ Jasper laughed as he backed through the beaded doorway to ease his side of a large package down onto the floor where it would be out of the way.

His companion bobbed his head to Lucie. ‘Mistress Wilton. I am Tomas the weaver.’ His accent identified him as a Fleming. ‘This is the fustian the captain ordered for the Riverwoman.’

She had forgotten. ‘Bless you for delivering it.’

‘I try to keep busy. It is hard at present, with the sickness. Folk do not like to come near foreigners.’ He and his family had lived in York a long while. But Lucie knew it was true the Flemings were avoided.

‘Did the captain pay you?’ she asked.

‘More than enough. I have coins to return.’ He counted them out, placing them on the table just inside the door. ‘We were glad for the order. Will the Riverwoman be making clothes for the poor?’

‘She is giving work to a family in need of it. Enough for them, and sufficient to make more to sell and display their skill.’

‘If I might be of help. We have a table at the Thursday market and we could display some of their work. Good for them, good for us.’

‘I will tell Magda of your generous offer.’

He bobbed his head and withdrew, thanking Jasper for his help.

Curious, Lucie untied the cord and lifted the waxed cloth to reveal a fustian unlike anything she had seen in shops, so soft as to seem far costlier, yet with a tight weave for long wear. She would see what she might do to stir up more business for Tomas.

‘I could borrow Bess’s cart and take it to Magda this afternoon,’ said Jasper. ‘I would like to see her.’

‘And Asa?’ They had heard of Owen’s solemn progress through the city and out Bootham, gossip spreading fast.

‘No. Just–’

‘You need not explain. For months you have been chained to the shop with little chance to stretch your legs and see something else. I accept your offer. Remember to take the coin.’

The sun was low in the sky, the streets evening-dark. Cool breezes whispered around corners, signaling an end to the warm spell. Owen shifted the pack on his shoulders as his mind raced, searching for a clue as to where Alan might hide his belongings, and Jack Fuller’s chest of papers and coin. Nothing in Alan’s belongings suggested such a place. But Hempe’s report of the delivery to the Wolcott home drew him there.

Voices of guests could be heard in the Wolcott yard. He passed it, slipping into Ferriby’s yard next door. John, the ‘gardener’, nodded to him.

‘Plenty folk coming and going at the street door, but not the leech,’ he said. ‘Heard him prattling at folk in the parish often enough I know his voice. I’ve listened for him, and he’s not been there.’

‘Have you heard anything of interest?’

‘Servants moaning that when the young master and the mistress leave early tomorrow they’re to scrub down the house and close it. The rest is much moaning about all the work, some tears for the old master.’

Peering through the hedge, Owen noticed the cart Hempe had mentioned, loaded, covered, ready for a morning departure. He saw no one about.

‘The cart is not guarded?’

‘Has been. I expect all the household is caught up with the guests.’

Leaving the pack of Alan Rawcliff’s belongings with John, Owen told him to stay close to the hedge, then slipped through into the Wolcott yard, ducking behind the cart. He waited, listening for footsteps or any sign he had been noticed. When he deemed it safe he untied a corner of the cover on the cart. The sun still cast light in the garden, the contents of the cart visible – bedding, cushions, a few chests of the sort that commonly hold clothing. Hearing footsteps, he crawled into the cart, dropping the end of the cover he’d lifted. He held his breath as the footsteps came close but then continued moving away from the house. Someone heading for the midden, he guessed. He lay still. The person returned, hesitating for a moment near him, then continued to the house. Slithering out, Owen peered up, and, seeing no one, lifted the cover more. He had felt something that might be a small chest beneath some cushions. Too dark beneath the cover and the cushions to see any carvings to identify it as Fuller’s, he shifted a larger chest to search beyond it. More footsteps, and voices. Again he climbed in, dropping the cover over him. The men were discussing protections against the pestilence. One said he had participated in a penitential procession in his church. The other scoffed, arguing that once the pestilence was in the city no amount of penance would push it out.

The first said, ‘Penance for my sins, not those of all the city. I know plenty deserve to be afflicted.’

‘Afflicted? You make light of the Death? There is no other end to it, you know.’

‘I know of two survived it.’

‘Pah. They thought they did is all.’

The men moved past, heading for the midden again, Owen guessed. He moved a foot to ease a cramp and reached down to rub it, stopping as they returned.

‘Did you hear Wolcott’s leech beat the Riverwoman’s daughter? She would have died but Captain Archer took her to her ma.’

‘Is that why we have not seen him today. I would hide, too, if that one-eyed Welshman caught me out.’

‘Too bad the captain did not stay at the prince’s court.’

‘Why? The city needs a protector.’

‘Protector? He’s spying for the prince and who knows who else.’

‘They say the Riverwoman’s dragon survived burning arrows without any damage.’

‘Mind me, those who tried to burn that witch’s house will all be dead of the pestilence before the harvest.’

‘So might we all.’

Their voices fading, Owen eased out, dragging the small chest to the light. Fuller’s initials, and a rose. What did it mean? Alan was paying to leave the city in the cart? Did he believe the sheriff would act on Asa’s word? Or might he truly fear Magda’s wrath?

Handing the chest through the hedge, Owen had returned to the cart to retie the cover when he heard footsteps. Ducking down, he heard Gavin Wolcott questioning a servant.

‘Where did you see him?’

‘Near the hedge.’

‘Carrying something?’

‘I thought, but might have–’

‘My apologies if I alarmed you,’ John called out from the direction of the Ferriby garden. ‘I was on the ladder trimming the top of the hedge. My shears flew out of my hand.’ He waved the old shears. ‘Found them.’

Gavin cuffed the servant and stormed back into the house.

Owen silently cursed as the servant began to pace and mutter curses, some to the ‘young master’, some to the Ferriby gardener. Though he managed to retie the cloth over the cart when the man turned away, Owen dared not leave. He waited for what seemed hours until Ferriby’s nephew Luke came strolling into the yard, hailing the serving man by name. Eager to complain to a sympathetic friend, the serving man grumbled away as Luke led him round the side of the house, motioning with a hand behind his back for Owen to take advantage of the distraction. In a flash, Owen was through the hedge, thanking John for fetching Luke.

‘That was clever. As was your feint with the shears.’

‘I noticed them talking earlier and prayed Luke would agree. He will expect you to await his return, share a bowl of ale with him.’

‘Gladly.’

Retrieving the pack and chest, Owen went into the shop. He did not wait long. Luke arrived, chuckling to himself.

‘You saved me from a long, long wait, or worse,’ said Owen. ‘I am grateful.’

‘I was glad of the chance to help, Captain. I confess I enjoyed it. I am not fond of Gavin Wolcott. Nor are any of the servants in that house. They are sad the mistress is deserting them. Time for a bowl of ale?’

‘I was hoping you would ask.’

Owen settled on a bench, leaning his head against the wall but quickly straightening as he realized how easy it would be to fall asleep right there. Luke busied himself filling two bowls to their brims from a large jug, handing Owen one while already sipping from the other.

After a long, welcome drink, Owen asked whether Luke had heard from his uncle. ‘Will he stay at the manor through the summer?’

‘No. He plans to move back and forth. He cannot abide being away from the business. Not a country man. I do not think the mistress will be glad of that. She has an idea that somehow folk carry the sickness from place to place even if they do not seem ill.’

‘It would explain how it spreads through the land.’

Luke looked doubtful. ‘What did you find?’

‘Something that does not belong to either the Wolcotts or the person I believe delivered it to them.’

‘That will be the man you are hunting, Master Bernard?’

Owen grinned. ‘You are a shrewd one.’

Luke put a finger to the side of his nose. ‘I’ll say naught about it. I have itched to search that cart. I suspect much of the merchandise Gavin Wolcott “moved” in the warehouse was brought to the house. And I’d not be surprised to find others’ goods tucked away as well.’

‘You think him a thief?’

‘If you’ve ever tried to look into his eyes, well, you can’t. Shifting all the while, looking here, looking there, anywhere but facing you. Sam Toller despised him, you know.’

‘Did he?’

‘With good cause, I think. Even his father distrusted him. He had Sam carry on his trade while he was mourning his children – not Gavin. I say you will find that Sam Toller was pushed into the Ouse for his curiosity.’

‘You know this?’

‘Cannot prove it, but the man was loyal to Guthlac and wary of Gavin, that he told me over many a tankard of ale.’

‘What of Dame Beatrice? Did she trust Sam over Gavin?’

‘Could not tell you. Sam admired her, and pitied her. She loved her children.’

‘And her husband? Did Sam pity her for being wed to a man so much older than she?’

A wince. ‘He never said as much, but something made me think he did. I could not swear to it. Nor whether she was unhappy. I always thought her oddly unfriendly to Dame Emma, the kindest of women.’

Finishing the bowl of ale, Owen thanked Luke for his help, and his information. ‘I have much to do before nightfall.’

‘I am glad to help. I will miss the “gardener” when Gavin and the mistress are gone.’

Slinging the pack over his shoulder and lifting the chest, Owen took his leave. His stomach growled as he turned back toward the Fuller house. But there was much to do before he turned homeward.

Janet Fuller wept to see the chest. ‘My Jack was so proud to be master of a ship.’

‘Would you inspect the contents, tell me whether anything is missing? Go inside, where it is comfortable.’

‘You should not come into the hall, not with Cilla–’

‘I will wait here.’

While he stood without, watching the street, Owen glimpsed a familiar lope and hailed Alfred.

‘Any sign of the leech?’

‘No, Captain.’

‘Are you headed home?’

‘I was. But if there’s aught I might do for Dame Janet and Cilla …’

Hearing how Alfred’s voice changed when speaking Cilla’s name, Owen wondered whether she was the young woman he had once hoped to wed. ‘Stand watch until I find someone to take your place?’

‘Gladly, Captain.’

Janet appeared, a smile assuring him that all was as it should be. ‘Alfred. Are you to guard Cilla and me tonight?’

‘As long as I am needed, Dame Janet. How is Cilla?’

Owen slipped away, turning toward the Cooper house, not too far. Edwin supported Alan. Might he hide him?

With the waning light, he noticed lamps lit in many homes. One burned in the kitchen of the Cooper house. Several men congregated in the cooperage yard, two rolling new barrels to a pile beneath the eaves, two watching, talking in low voices.

‘Is Edwin Cooper about?’

‘Aye, he is. But what he’s about, well, see for yourself.’ The man gestured toward the workshop.

The shutters on the window beside the door were opened. On the floor, illuminated by a lamp on a worktable he glimpsed a man’s bare backside, hiding some of the naked woman beneath him. Cooper cried out, begging God’s forgiveness as the woman beneath him laughed. Owen recognized her as a servant in the household. Much ado here, but nothing to do with Alan Rawcliff.

Nodding his thanks, Owen turned toward Hempe’s house. He would ask him to send someone to relieve Alfred’s watch, arrange for help with tomorrow morning’s plan, and then go home. He needed Lucie’s clear-eyed counsel. He would leave the visit to the mayor’s home till morning, when he passed it to attend the mass for Jack Fuller. Near the bridge he encountered a pair of friars praying as two men loaded several corpses onto a cart. Victims of the pestilence, from the stench. Covering his nose and mouth with a scarf he, like all folk in the city, wore round his neck right now, Owen hurried along.

It was only when Owen entered his own gate and saw Lucie, Jasper, and Kate sitting by the fire, heard the murmur of their talk, that he felt his stomach unclench. He had turned away Lotta Hempe’s offer of food and drink in his haste to make certain all was well at home.

‘Have you eaten?’ Lucie asked.

He could not recall when or what he’d eaten. Certainly not at Magda’s. Nor since then. He vaguely remembered some bread snatched up as he left for the Fuller home in the early morning. ‘No.’

While Kate prepared a bowl of stew and cut bread Owen poured himself a mazer of ale and sank down before the fire. Lucie stood behind him, massaging his temples.

‘We will talk,’ she said, ‘but first you must eat and rest awhile.’

He took a long drink. ‘He calls himself a healer,’ he growled.

Lucie shushed him. ‘Eat first. Jasper told me the extent of Asa’s injuries. I know, my love, I know.’

Einar led the donkey and cart out of the yard, getting acquainted with the animal. It felt good to stretch his legs and breathe in the scents of the forest, feel the cool air on his skin, even the mist. All night the fire in Magda’s home had burned hot, a comfort at first, but later waking him in a sweat. He had taken the blankets and moved as far from the fire as possible. And though he woke with icy feet and hands he’d stayed in his corner until Magda called to him to observe her examination of Asa.

This morning her face and all exposed skin on her right side were darkened with bruising. But the swelling in her hand had eased a little, and he helped Magda removed the temporary bandage so that she might apply an unguent on the bruised and swollen hand, misshapen by the mutilated fingers.

‘When will you set them?’

‘Later this day, before thou must leave to assist the crow.’

Einar imagined the agony Asa would suffer in the process. ‘Michaelo is more of a phoenix, rising from the ashes,’ he said, hoping to wipe away the image.

‘All clerics are crows to Magda.’

‘He is different.’

‘Thou couldst say that of each one.’

When would he learn that arguing with Magda would circle back on him?

When the examination was finished, she had sat with Einar as he ate, explaining how to find the earthen house in the woodland glade where he was to deliver the cloth. Her directions were like none he had ever received. He must move at a slow pace once the track dipped, feeling for the subtle shift in the scent and listening for the moment when it seemed as if the woods hushed at his approach, the trees stilled. He was then to turn toward the river on a path that he might doubt was truly a path leading anywhere.

‘Thou wilt understand when thou seest it,’ said Magda. ‘Leave the donkey and cart in the clearing beyond where the path bends round an ancient oak. Shoulder thy load and walk from there. The house is not far.’

‘How will I know it?’

‘It is the only one on that path. If thou canst not find the path, return to Magda and she will take it another day.’

‘You doubt me?’

She had smiled and touched his arm. ‘It is not thee whom Magda doubts.’

And that had been that.

Considering Alan’s violent temper, Einar had taken up his bow and a quiver of arrows for the errand.

‘Magda warns thee to leave all weapons but a short knife in the cart.’ She had not smiled then.

‘Why? This family to whom I deliver the cloth would object?’

‘Not them. Promise Magda thou wilt leave all weapons in the cart.’

‘But someone might steal them – or Nip, now I think of it. A donkey is valuable.’

‘No one will steal thy weapons from the cart. Nor Nip. Magda warns thee to follow her directions.’

‘I swear I will.’

He’d felt uneasy then, even more so now. Her riddles confused him. But he was determined to succeed.

The woods were quiet so early in the morning. On the way he would walk Nip and the cart, not ride up high where the noise of the wheels might mask his sense of the quieting. He would ride in the cart on the way back. He had been walking for a while when Nip grew restive as two men, bent beneath the weight of their sacks of wood, waddled toward them.

Einar eased the cart to the side of the track to permit the pair to pass. They blessed him in barely discernible mumbles as they slowly went by. Something about them prompted him to stay put until they were out of sight. He was glad he had, for once he resumed he quickly sensed a change in the air, an enveloping quiet. To his left he saw a faint trail, as if the underbrush had grown over what was once a deeply rutted track. Softly encouraging Nip, he guided him on to the path and beyond a great oak. There he found the clearing Magda had mentioned, complete with an old trough in which the water looked clear. Cupping his hand, he tasted it. Fresh water.

‘There you are, Nip. Refreshment.’ Slipping his weapons into the cart, tucking them away in a corner, he backed up to the rear of the cart and crouched down to lift the pack of cloth to his shoulder. With a promise to return soon, he continued down the track which grew more defined, smiling as he heard the sound of water over rocks and felt the coolness as if near a waterfall. The trees shivered and sighed above him.

The rumble and squeak grew louder, and the sound of boots striking the road in a brisk march. Close now. Alfred guided his horse to one side of the track.

‘Weapons?’ Owen asked Crispin.

‘If those two had bows I would have seen them. Knives and brawn, if we’re lucky, an axe if we’re not.’

Nodding, Owen whispered to his mount to calm it as they eased past Alfred. Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing the men hurrying to keep up with the laden cart. Three people were clearly visible on the seat, two veiled women and Gavin Wolcott. Owen notched an arrow and aimed at Wolcott’s shoulder, but before he let it fly a woman turned round and called out a warning. Wolcott raised his bow, an arrow notched, but had to rise and turn round to shoot.

In that pause Owen hit Gavin’s shoulder, the impact toppling him forward onto the horse, who skittered. The men in the rear began to charge Owen and his men, but halted at a woman’s scream.

‘The cart! Gavin has fallen beneath the cart!’

Alfred and Stephen surged past Owen to take the men.

‘Captain, down!’ Michaelo shouted behind Owen.

As he pressed himself to the horse’s neck something rushed past. Looking behind him he saw an axe lodge in a tree.

‘The man who was leading the cart,’ said Michaelo. ‘He has a knife now.’

Straightening with his arrow ready, Owen aimed at the arm holding the knife, then the man’s thigh. As the man fell he was pushed away by Gavin, who was crawling out from beneath the covered cart. One of the women clambered down to help him while her companion stumbled down off the cart and hobbled away.

‘I’ll stop her,’ Michaelo called out.

Owen, arrow notched and ready, walked his horse toward the woman leaning over Gavin. Rearing up, she bared her teeth at him. No veil covered her head now. Gemma Toller, her face and the front of her gown bloody. In her hand she held a substantial knife, and the way she wielded it, the discipline with which she raised her arm – she knew how to throw it. There was nothing for it but to immobilize her. As the arrow struck her upper arm her eyes widened in disbelief and she slipped down onto Gavin. That should keep him down for a moment.

Dismounting, Owen moved to the cart, untying a corner of the cover as Crispin rode up to him, John riding pillion.

‘The roll of bedding is on the other side,’ said John.

As Owen stepped over Gemma she reared up, grabbing for him.

Crispin raised his walking stick and struck her in the head. ‘I never did trust her.’

Stephen and Alfred dragged their two men toward the cart, both bound hand and foot, dumping them on the track and then dragging Gemma and Gavin out of the way. Michaelo followed them, leading a woman who stumbled along on a tether to his saddle. Not Dame Beatrice, but one of her maidservants.

‘Where is your mistress?’ Owen asked.

‘I do not know,’ she sobbed. ‘He told me to dress that woman in my mistress’s gown. He said we must protect my mistress, that she was accused of murdering the old master, so this woman was pretending to be her.’

‘Can anyone tell me where Beatrice Wolcott is?’ Owen growled.

One of the men who had followed the cart was sitting up now. ‘That whore? I tossed her in a shed where she’ll rot as she deserves.’

‘How dare you!’ the maidservant cried. ‘My mistress is no whore.’

‘No? She slept with his son to bear Wolcott brats. What would you call her?’

Stephen silenced him with a kick to his chin.

Gemma Toller struggled up to fall upon Gavin, pounding on him with her fists. ‘What have you done with her? What have you done?’

Crispin used his stick to push her off the man. ‘You might have asked after her earlier,’ he said.

‘I did. Gavin– He said Beatrice was leaving in a separate cart by Micklegate Bar. We will be hanged for this,’ Gemma whimpered.

‘Likely,’ said Crispin.

Owen shushed him, told Stephen and Alfred to tie up the prisoners, motioned to Michaelo to help him search for the man rolled in bedding. The monk dismounted, tying the reins to the cart.

The roll was where John had said. As he pulled it toward him Owen could feel that it did indeed contain a body, one that twitched, then jerked as he handled it. Once on the ground he cut the cords holding it together and opened it. Inside, Alan Rawcliff lay unconscious, bruised and battered, his shirt stiff with dried blood.

Magda stepped away as the friars lifted the dying man into their cart. They would take him to a building at the friary where they tended those dying of the pestilence, including their own. Time at last to return to Asa in this quiet moment before the Death revealed itself among the folk on the river. They had been touched. Weakened by poverty, many would succumb. Too many.

‘Dame Magda,’ Twig’s mother called to her as she pushed through the onlookers, the lad stumbling to keep up as she pulled him along behind her. ‘My son has a confession to make.’

At last. Magda had been aware for a long while that the lad held something inside. She guided them toward the riverbank, and the coracle. Another with much on her mind waited there. Lettice Brown.

‘I watched Einar’s encounter with Captain Archer and his men,’ said Lettice. ‘They had Gavin Wolcott, Bernard the leech, Gemma Toller, and the men from the warehouse. They can no longer harm me. I am ready to tell the captain all that I know.’

Gemma Toller among them. Magda nodded to herself. She looked to Twig. ‘Dost thy confession pertain to the Wolcotts and the Tollers?’

The boy mumbled a yes.

‘He saw the men grab Sam Toller and toss him into the flood,’ said Twig’s mother.

‘Go together to the captain,’ said Magda. ‘It is time he heard all.’

The cruelty of Beatrice’s treatment slowed Owen’s steps as he turned toward the castle. When he snapped at a child racing past he judged himself too angry to confront Gavin Wolcott just yet. Instead he turned toward St Mary’s Abbey. The king’s men would prevent him from murdering Alan, but he might frighten him into confessing his part.

‘The infirmary?’ Michaelo looked doubtful.

‘Surely Brother Henry will permit you to perform your duty for me,’ said Owen.

With a shrug, the monk followed him to the abbey.

The infirmarian’s bleary eyes told a tale of a difficult patient.

‘Alan wakes?’ Owen asked.

‘Yes, God help us. When he understood where he was and why, I have never heard such language, spewing curses in ear-piercing shrieks as he fought against his restraints and accused us of sending him to his death. I quieted him with a soporific, but not so much that he cannot respond.’

‘Has he been questioned?’

‘By one of the king’s men, yes. He loudly denies assisting Monsieur Ricard. Says he has never heard the name, nor will he admit to being Alan Rawcliff. He answers only to “Master Bernard”.’

‘The king’s men believe him?’

‘No. They are eager to speak with you.’

‘I know little more than I did last night. Except that his physick poisoned the womb of Beatrice Wolcott, killing the child she carried and bringing the mother perilously close to death. Albeit her condition was worsened by her abandonment to suffer the miscarriage alone in a cold, dark, filthy shack.’

‘He did that?’

‘Not the abandonment. That is another’s crime. He is still in the infirmary?’

‘Sadly, yes. Abbot William refused my request to move him where he might be isolated and spare my other patients.’

Owen glanced round, saw three monastic patients, two of them elderly. ‘Poor men.’

‘I provided them with waxed cloths to place in their ears to dull the sound, and a sleeping tonic last night.’

‘You are a kind man.’

The monk’s usual gentle smile made a brief appearance. ‘I am called to heal, not to torment. But enough of my woes. You will wish to speak with Alan.’

‘I want a written record of his confession. Will you permit my secretary to attend me?’

The gentle eyes hardened. ‘You do not mean Brother Michaelo?’

‘I do.’ Owen held his gaze, gently, but firmly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Henry bowed. ‘For you and His Grace,’ he said.

Michaelo slipped quietly behind Owen, becoming his shadow as Henry showed them to a screened corner away from the windows looking onto the gardens. Standing before the narrow break in the screens was a muscular man in royal livery. He bobbed his head to Owen and Michaelo, standing aside to allow them through.

The bruises on Alan’s face remained, but the swelling had eased and his cold eyes were trained on Owen.

‘Come to gloat with an audience, Archer?’

‘No. To talk. My secretary will record what you say.’

‘You waste your time.’

‘I see. You think your argument so weak that you would not consider an exchange of information that might ease your punishment?’

‘Prince Edward show mercy?’ The man’s rasping laughter dissolved into a coughing fit.

A novice hurried through the opening with a cup. ‘Honeyed water,’ he said to Owen, who nodded his approval.

The young man knelt beside Alan’s pallet, assisting him in drinking for his hands were bound beside him. Owen took the opportunity to position a stool where he might see Alan’s face, then waited. When at last Alan turned away, the novice rose, bobbing his head to Owen and slipping out.

‘Gavin Wolcott blames all on you.’ A lie for which Owen would do penance. But if it revealed the culprits …

‘Greedy whoreson. What information do you need to hang him?’

‘Tell me all that you know of Wolcott’s plans. Exactly what he hired you to do.’

‘His father was dying. Poisoned by the witch. He needed a leech, that is all.’

‘You cannot hide behind your lies. His Grace Prince Edward has sent men throughout the realm searching for you as part of the traitor Monsieur Ricard’s household. Your flight was your first mistake. Now he has reports from Bishop Bokyngham of Lincoln regarding your crimes in his city. Poisoning Guthlac Wolcott, his widow, and his unborn child are merely additions to the case against you.’

‘I poisoned no one.’

‘Then tell me what Gavin Wolcott hired you to do. And what you know of his plans.’