Read Online The Cross Legged Knight by Candace Robb - Free Book Online
Authors: Candace Robb
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himself, ignoring his age, pretending he was going off on crusade? The deeded property was unnecessary, that is evident from the quality of his tomb, the family’s chantry chapel – they are not lacking wealth. I have said it all along, his wits were blunted by time.’
Thoresby was sensitive about this issue, having of late wondered whether his own mind grew dull. ‘The king chose Ranulf to spy on the French.’
Wykeham shook his head. ‘I saw the correspondence. Sir Ranulf opened the discussion. He offered his services.’
‘To fight, not spy.’ Thoresby wondered whether the knight’s family had been aware of that. Emma had spoken as if her father had answered King Edward’s call and Thoresby had chosen not to correct her – it was true, in a sense.
Wykeham watched Thoresby with lips pursed and a just perceptible nod. ‘Sir Ranulf had not mentioned spying in his offer, I grant you that. I think by your expression you had doubts about the wisdom of his undertaking the mission.’
Thoresby had indeed been blunted by time if he was so easily read by Wykeham. ‘I thought it ill-advised.’
‘So, too, did his lady, if the gossip is true that she did not approve of the cross-legged knight carving for his tomb.’
‘Yes. But his daughter Emma understood. He was a pious man who wished, towards the end of his life, to devote himself to God. Lady Pagnell would not havehim withdraw to a monastery, so he conceived of another way to dedicate his life, serving his king.’
‘Sir Ranulf chose a peculiar form of piety,’ Wykeham said.
Coals shifted in the brazier, startling Thoresby from his reflection. It must be very late – he wondered whether Wykeham’s townhouse still smouldered.
Owen sat for a while in bed beside Lucie, sipping his wine, but he was restless and worried that he would wake her. Slipping away to the kitchen, he found the patient alone, the door to the garden open. Poins lay still, breathing, but Owen knew from other such surgeries that for a few more days the man would balance between this world and the next. It would be a difficult time for the household. He had meant it when he said it was good of Lucie to take in the injured man, but he wondered what had possessed her to do such a thing when she was still weak, when the family was still worried for her. Surely she saw how frightened Hugh and Gwenllian had been by her illness, and now they must be kept from the kitchen or face a mutilated man with burns on his face, a gash in his head. And when in the morning he told Lucie the man might be a murderer, what might her reaction be? Two months ago he would have had no qualms, he would have known she would accept the news as God’s wish, that they shelter this man and not condemn him. But she was so changed.
He wished Magda had waited to work on the arm until he had come home. Without the dwale, Poins might have been coherent enough to talk, if not tonight, surely in the morning. As it was, Owen must wait.
Magda’s pack was on a pallet on the other side of the fire, but the covers had not been disturbed. She had set a pot to cool on a small table near Poins. Owen sniffed it – recoiled. It smelled like the tanners’ yard. Another bowl, covered with a cloth, smelled of rotten meat. Owen went out into the garden in search of Magda.
Alfred whispered a greeting from his post beneath the eaves. Magda sat beyond him, on a bench that was being crowded out by rosemary, her head lifted to the starlit sky. How quiet the city was now, where just hours ago folk fought a conflagration that might have taken many homes as well as the bishop’s. Even the Fitzbaldrics were probably in bed by now. Owen wondered about the loved ones of the woman who lay in the shed on Petergate. Had they gone to bed knowing she was lost?
‘Thou art wakeful?’ Magda said, breaking the silence.
Owen joined her, stretching out his legs, bending forward to ease his back. ‘I’m worried about Lucie, about Poins being
Thoresby was sensitive about this issue, having of late wondered whether his own mind grew dull. ‘The king chose Ranulf to spy on the French.’
Wykeham shook his head. ‘I saw the correspondence. Sir Ranulf opened the discussion. He offered his services.’
‘To fight, not spy.’ Thoresby wondered whether the knight’s family had been aware of that. Emma had spoken as if her father had answered King Edward’s call and Thoresby had chosen not to correct her – it was true, in a sense.
Wykeham watched Thoresby with lips pursed and a just perceptible nod. ‘Sir Ranulf had not mentioned spying in his offer, I grant you that. I think by your expression you had doubts about the wisdom of his undertaking the mission.’
Thoresby had indeed been blunted by time if he was so easily read by Wykeham. ‘I thought it ill-advised.’
‘So, too, did his lady, if the gossip is true that she did not approve of the cross-legged knight carving for his tomb.’
‘Yes. But his daughter Emma understood. He was a pious man who wished, towards the end of his life, to devote himself to God. Lady Pagnell would not havehim withdraw to a monastery, so he conceived of another way to dedicate his life, serving his king.’
‘Sir Ranulf chose a peculiar form of piety,’ Wykeham said.
Coals shifted in the brazier, startling Thoresby from his reflection. It must be very late – he wondered whether Wykeham’s townhouse still smouldered.
Owen sat for a while in bed beside Lucie, sipping his wine, but he was restless and worried that he would wake her. Slipping away to the kitchen, he found the patient alone, the door to the garden open. Poins lay still, breathing, but Owen knew from other such surgeries that for a few more days the man would balance between this world and the next. It would be a difficult time for the household. He had meant it when he said it was good of Lucie to take in the injured man, but he wondered what had possessed her to do such a thing when she was still weak, when the family was still worried for her. Surely she saw how frightened Hugh and Gwenllian had been by her illness, and now they must be kept from the kitchen or face a mutilated man with burns on his face, a gash in his head. And when in the morning he told Lucie the man might be a murderer, what might her reaction be? Two months ago he would have had no qualms, he would have known she would accept the news as God’s wish, that they shelter this man and not condemn him. But she was so changed.
He wished Magda had waited to work on the arm until he had come home. Without the dwale, Poins might have been coherent enough to talk, if not tonight, surely in the morning. As it was, Owen must wait.
Magda’s pack was on a pallet on the other side of the fire, but the covers had not been disturbed. She had set a pot to cool on a small table near Poins. Owen sniffed it – recoiled. It smelled like the tanners’ yard. Another bowl, covered with a cloth, smelled of rotten meat. Owen went out into the garden in search of Magda.
Alfred whispered a greeting from his post beneath the eaves. Magda sat beyond him, on a bench that was being crowded out by rosemary, her head lifted to the starlit sky. How quiet the city was now, where just hours ago folk fought a conflagration that might have taken many homes as well as the bishop’s. Even the Fitzbaldrics were probably in bed by now. Owen wondered about the loved ones of the woman who lay in the shed on Petergate. Had they gone to bed knowing she was lost?
‘Thou art wakeful?’ Magda said, breaking the silence.
Owen joined her, stretching out his legs, bending forward to ease his back. ‘I’m worried about Lucie, about Poins being
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