The message, sent by Jan to tell him Edith was dying, had taken more than a day to reach him. He’d set out at once, but it had rained hard the night before and the muddy tracks were as slippery as butter. Where the track crossed marshland, he’d frequently been forced to dismount and drag the beast forward, squelching through deep mud and over rotting boards. Whenever he passed a wayside shrine or church, he crossed himself, offering up a prayer for a miracle that would heal her.
But he’d dared not press the pace for, if the horse slipped, it might easily break its own leg or its rider’s neck. He tried to tell himself that haste was useless. His wife would either be already dead, or he’d arrive at home to find her sitting up and declaring herself much better. Either way, he would be of little help to her if he was lying in a ditch with his back broken.
But when the lower walls of the city at last came into sight he was seized with panic, certain, now that he was so close, that every minute counted. He spurred his mount into a gallop, knowing that the poor beast was already on its last wind, as he was himself. But guilt drove him on in the desperate hope that he might reach home in time.
He glanced anxiously up at the leaden sky. What little light there had been was fading fast. If he didn’t reach the city gates before nightfall, they’d be locked against him and he would be forced to spend the night in the guest hall of one of the monasteries or inns that lay outside the city. With rumours of unrest in the countryside over the poll tax, and every manner of robber and cut-throat roaming the roads after dark, not even a hefty bribe would induce the watchmen to unlock the gates once they were closed, and in this weather they would be only too anxious to retire into their gatehouses and warm their hands over a brazier.
His horse clattered over High Bridge. Robert sent two old women reeling back into the wall as he attempted to force his mount between them and an ox wagon piled high with kegs of salted fish. The women screeched at him as the freshly washed linen in their baskets tumbled into the mud and was dragged beneath the wagon’s wheels. One tried to grab his leg, demanding he pay for the spoiled cloth. On any other occasion, Robert would have apologised and given her a few coins, but he spurred his horse onwards, scarcely registering the curses behind him.
A line of carts and wagons had drawn up before the gate in the city wall. Two of the watch were clambering onto the wheels of the carts, lifting coverings and poking among the bales and barrels with their pikes, demanding to know the destination of the drivers, how long they intended to stay and all manner of impertinent questions.
Robert knew, as did the seasoned carters, that the watch had every intention of delaying them until the bell sounded. Then they’d slam the gates, telling them they were too late to enter. A few of the watch took bribes from the inns and religious houses where travellers would be forced to pay for a night’s lodging if they couldn’t get into the city. But mostly it was a malicious trick they played on travellers to punish latecomers for keeping them from their supper at the end of a long and miserable day in the rain.
Robert squeezed his horse’s flanks and forced his way round the stationary wagons to the front of the queue, ignoring the angry protests that he should wait his turn.
One of the watch, seeing what he was up to, moved quicker than he had all day to block his path. He reached up to grab the horse’s reins. ‘Get back in the line! There’s others here afore you.’
Robert knew most of the watch by sight, and they him, but this man was unfamiliar. He pulled a purse from under his cloak and, without even looking at what he was holding, pushed a coin into the man’s hand. ‘My wife’s dying in the city. I was sent for . . . In the name of charity, let me pass.’
The man gaped when he saw the glint of gold in his hand and hastily shoved it inside his clothes. He let the reins go at once and waved Robert through. Those still waiting howled in fury.
‘Hold your peace,’ the watchman shouted. ‘The man’s wife is dying. Where’s your charity, you bastards?’ He fingered the coin beneath his shirt.
Just then the bell sounded from the great cathedral high above and the watch grinned to each other as they hastened to the gates and began to force them shut.
‘Master Robert! The Virgin be praised.’ Beata’s pale lips lifted into an exhausted smile as Robert burst in from the courtyard, where he had paused only long enough to fling the reins of his horse at the stable-boy.
‘Edith . . . Has she recovered?’ he asked eagerly.
Beata’s face fell. ‘No, I meant . . . I’m glad you are come. We thought the messenger might not reach you. The mistress . . . Father Remigius is with her.’
‘I am not too late, then.’
Exhausted though he was, Robert took the stairs two at a time. He hesitated outside the closed door, suddenly afraid of what he would find behind it.
Catlin must have heard his tread on the stairs. Before he could put his hand to the latch, she opened it. She beamed at him and, for a moment, he was gratified to see the delight on her face.
‘I told dear Edith you would come,’ she whispered. ‘She’s sleeping.’ She pointed to the thin wooden partition that screened off the bedchamber from the rest of the solar.
Robert opened the door and tiptoed in, as quietly as any man of his weight could do. Even though the evening was wet and cold, the room was hot and heavy with the smoke from the glowing charcoal in the two brass braziers placed at either side of the bed. The drawn bed hangings billowed out and back again as Catlin softly shut the door behind him.
Father Remigius knelt on a cushion before the statues of the Virgin and several saints, which were crowded on to a small table in a corner of the room. His chin was sunk onto his clasped hands. He turned his head at the sound of the door, then rose stiffly, with a groan. Hastening towards Robert, he grasped his arm and pulled him into the corner furthest away from the bed. ‘My prayers have been answered,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve returned in time.’
‘My wife, how is she?’ Robert said, trying to pull his arm out of the little priest’s grasp.
‘The hour of her death will soon be upon us. We must tend her soul now, for there is nothing more that can be done for her body. Mistress Catlin has been nothing short of a saint.’ Father Remigius beamed fondly at her. ‘She has worn herself out caring for your dear wife night and day. She’d not even allow your maid to help her.’
Robert nodded curtly. He crossed to the bed, pulling aside one of the curtains that draped it. Had he not known it was his wife who lay there, he would never have recognised her. She seemed so very small. Her body scarcely lifted the heavy blanket that covered it. Strips of linen had been used to fasten Edith’s wrists to the bedposts on either side and, to Robert’s horror, he saw that her lips, black with dried blood, were stretched around a wooden block that had been forced between her broken teeth. It was held in place by a leather strap tied around her head. Her breath rasped noisily as her fragile chest rose and fell.
‘God’s bones, what have they done to you?’ Robert seized the leather strap, trying to release the gag, but the priest caught his wrist, pulling him away.
‘The block is there to protect her. At times such agony comes upon her that she tears at her flesh and bites through her lips, screaming that her head is on fire and demons are gnawing at her entrails. When the convulsions seize her, she bites her tongue until the blood pours from her mouth and clenches her teeth until they splinter in her jaw.’
Robert tottered away from the bed, flung wide the casement and leaned out into the night sky, gulping in the cold air and grateful for the cooling rain falling on his burning skin.
When he felt in control of himself again, he turned back into the room. Catlin had just lit the candles and turned to face him, her face bathed in the gentle yellow light. She was clad in a plain, elegantly cut russet gown, her skirts protected by a white apron. Her dark hair glistened beneath its scarlet fret. The gentle, anxious smile as she searched his face made him almost weep at the contrast she made with the creat
ure that lay in the bed.
‘She had one of her fits shortly before you arrived, Robert. They usually leave her so exhausted that she cannot be roused for at least two hours after. You’ve had a long journey. You’re trembling with fatigue. You should eat and rest while she sleeps. I’ll watch her as I always do and call you at once when she wakes.’
Her concern for him was so tender that Robert would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, if Father Remigius had not been present. Instead, he made a formal bow. ‘Mistress . . . I owe you a debt I can never repay. Father Remigius speaks no less than the truth when he says you’re a saint.’
It wasn’t until Catlin had mentioned it that he realised just how exhausted he was. He felt as if all the strength had suddenly drained from him and he no longer had the energy to stand. ‘I think I will eat . . . But you’ll be sure to call me if there’s any change for better or . . .?’
‘Of course.’
Robert looked down once more at the pathetic little body in the great bed. He gently pressed the back of his fingers to the parchment skin of his wife’s ravaged cheek. It was so thin and fragile he was afraid even to caress her in case he hurt her. ‘I’ll return in a little while, my dear,’ he said tenderly. ‘You rest now.’
But she did not open her eyes or give any sign that she had heard him.
Robert dragged himself across the room. As he made to close the door, he found the little priest hurrying out behind him. ‘I must return to my duties, Master Robert.’
‘But my wife . . . she cannot be far from death.’
Father Remigius laid a hand on his arm. Robert knew it was intended to comfort him, but it did nothing except irritate him.
‘I’ve done all I can for your wife. I heard her confession this morning, though it made little sense. But I believe she knew, for a moment or two, who I was and what I was asking, and to that end I have taken it upon myself to absolve and shrive her. She’s received Extreme Unction and Viaticum. There is nothing more I can do until . . .’ He hesitated, glancing back at the closed door.
With a stab of pain, Robert knew he meant until Edith was dead and he found himself blaming Father Remigius that his wife was dying. If the priest had more faith, if the man had prayed harder, refused to give up hope, Edith would be recovering. Why had Father Remigius not demanded a miracle? That was his job, wasn’t it?
The priest took Robert’s arm, leading him away from the door. ‘You must understand that her wits are already fled into Purgatory. She babbles of such terrors. I strongly advise that you stop your ears to anything she says. But, Master Robert, there is something else I should warn you of—’
Whatever the priest was about to confide was lost as a door banged violently below them and they heard raised voices.
Robert strode down the stairs, ready to vent his anger on whichever servant was disturbing a dying woman, only to find Jan in the hall below. The sleeve of his padded gypon was torn at the shoulder and a thin smear of blood covered the knuckles of his sword hand.
‘Jan!’
‘So, you’re finally back, are you?’ Jan said. ‘I sent the messenger two days ago.’
‘I left as soon as your message reached me. The roads are quagmires. Nothing is moving fast in this rain. But you should have sent for me earlier – the fits, the madness. How long has she been like this?’
‘Mad? Is that what Widow Catlin told you?’ Jan demanded.
‘It is what I told your father and I hope you don’t mean to quarrel with me.’
The door to the stairs opened and Father Remigius emerged from the shadows into the hall.
‘My son, I have spent much of my life ministering to the dying. Many, especially the old, ramble towards the end. They return to the past, thinking their wives to be their mothers, or believing that they fought a man yesterday when it happened years ago. The past and present mingle in the dying and they wander from one to the other until it is not always easy to know where they are in their minds.’
‘My mother is not old or witless,’ Jan said fiercely.
‘No,’ Father Remigius agreed, ‘she is not, and if you would have the patience to let me finish, I will explain to you why I think her mad, not wandering. Unlike the old, she babbles of things that have never happened, evil, twisted things of which she can never have had knowledge. She screams that imps peer at her round the bed hangings or crawl like snakes through the casements and knotholes. She—’
‘But the worm of madness attacks only the mind, not the body,’ Jan broke in. ‘And she speaks of poison. I’ve seen her writhe and clutch her belly. I’ve watched her waste away. Poison would drive her to see terrible visions. Deadly nightshade, monkshood or even mandrake root would cause the agonies she feels and destroy her body besides.’
‘And such poisons are fatal,’ the priest said firmly. ‘Mistress Edith would have died within hours had she taken those things, not lingered like this, and their effects are well known to any physician, particularly one as learned as Hugo Bayus. He would have recognised the signs at once.’
‘Father, you must listen. Mother is certain she is being poisoned. She—’
‘Be quiet!’ Robert pushed Jan firmly aside and strode to the door that opened onto the stableyard. He bellowed for Beata, Tenney – anyone – to bring wine and mutton, then turned back to his son. ‘Listen to me, boy. I will not have this nonsense spoken of again. Have you any idea what damage would be done to my business if such a rumour were to be bandied abroad? If I thought there was a grain of truth in it, I’d send for the sheriff myself this very hour, but it’s the ravings of a woman in delirium.’
Beata appeared in the doorway, gripping a heavy pot in both hands, and nudged the door wider with her hip. With anxious glances at the three grim faces, she marched in and set the steaming pot of stewed beaver’s tail on the table. ‘Lent’s begun, Master Robert. Had you forgotten? There’ll be no meat now till the Easter feast.’ Beata glared at the priest as if he was personally responsible for this privation.
Robert had indeed forgotten. At least beaver tails were permitted, for they were deemed to be fish, but they were certainly no substitute for roast mutton.
‘Beata, you don’t think my mother mad, do you?’ Jan said.
A wary expression crept over Beata’s face, as if she feared a trap. ‘The mad don’t waste away,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’d an old aunt who used to run about the town half naked, screaming and trying to snatch babies from their mothers, thinking they were hers. They took her to St Magdalene’s and kept her locked up in there. She grew as fat as a farrowing sow in her madness. My mistress is not moon-struck like her. But . . . she’s not right in her head either. ’Tis the pain, if you ask me. She’s tormented so, and people say all kinds of nonsense when the fever’s upon them, but that doesn’t mean they’re mad.’
‘There! Now will you be content?’ Robert snapped. ‘Even Beata admits your mother doesn’t know what she’s saying. Let that be an end of it. I will hear not another word on the matter.’
The men watched in an uncomfortable silence as two more trips to the kitchen added leek-sops, a baked carp, bread and a flagon of wine to the table.
‘Will you dine with us, Father Remigius?’ Robert asked, only from obligation: he had no desire to entertain him.
The priest gazed longingly at the table, then glumly shook his head. ‘I’d best be about my work.’ He made the sign of the cross in front of the two men, who bowed their heads sullenly.
As soon as the door to the street had closed behind the priest, Robert strode to the table. Ripping off a chunk of bread he dipped it into the stew and ravenously shoved it into his mouth. ‘Eat, boy,’ he murmured thickly.
‘I’m not hungry, Father.’
‘Then sit down and watch me. How have things been in my absence at the warehouse?’
Jan marched to the table and poured himself a generous quantity of wine, spilling some in the process. It was only when Robert saw his hand clasping the stem of the goblet
that he registered there was blood on it. He gestured towards the cut, with a piece of beaver’s tail he’d speared on his knife. ‘Cut yourself? You’ve torn your gypon too. Had an accident?’
Jan flung himself into a chair and tossed back the wine. ‘It was nothing,’ he said savagely. ‘Florentines again. Matthew Johan and his brothers causing trouble as usual.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?’
Jan stared up at the great boar in the tapestry on the wall, laying its head in the lap of the Saxon princess, as if he’d only just noticed it. The gold thread of the boar’s collar glinted in the flames of the fire. Jan seemed to be steeling himself to break some disagreeable news and his hesitation alarmed Robert.
‘Out with it, lad!’
‘Merchants from Florence left Lincoln with goods they hadn’t paid for. Nigh on fifty pounds’ worth of our wool and cloth, and far more besides from the other Lincoln merchants.’
‘What?’ The knife clattered from Robert’s grasp. ‘You let them run off with our goods? Why didn’t you stop them?’
Jan flushed. ‘I didn’t know they were going to disappear. We’d traded with them before and they had a bond . . . Besides, the other merchants were selling to them. We’d have lost out if we hadn’t.’
‘And we have lost dearly because we did,’ Robert snapped. ‘How much did they take from the other merchants?’
‘Nearly five hundred pounds’ worth, thieving foreigners! They’re all members of the Society of Albertini, the same one the Johan brothers belong to. It was the Albertini that issued the bond. I went to the mayor and told him the Johan brothers were plainly part of the fraud. He had his bailiffs seize goods and money from their warehouses and homes. Not as much as the merchants lost in total, but I went with them to make sure we got enough to cover our losses. I told the Florentines that if they wanted it back they could reclaim the worth from their own society brothers. They didn’t take kindly to that.’ He sucked at his bleeding knuckle.