The Bone Jar: An Owen Archer Short Story (The Owen Archer Series) Read online

  The Bone Jar

  Candace Robb

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Candace Robb

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition April 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-540-9

  Also by Candace Robb

  The Owen Archer Series

  The Apothecary Rose

  The Lady Chapel

  The Nun’s Tale

  The King’s Bishop

  The Riddle of St. Leonard’s

  A Gift of Sanctuary

  A Spy for the Redeemer

  The Guilt of Innocents

  The Margaret Kerr Series

  A Trust Betrayed

  The Fire in the Flint

  A Cruel Courtship

  Kate Clifford Mysteries

  The Service of the Dead

  Table of Contents

  The Bone Jar

  More from Candace Robb

  Keep reading for an excerpt of THE SERVICE OF THE DEAD

  Connect with Diversion Books

  The Bone Jar

  The tide was in. The Ouse River swirled round the small island of rock on which stood a solitary hut fashioned from bits of flotsam and jetsam, crowned by a much patched, no longer seaworthy Viking longboat from York’s past. Owen Archer folded his long legs into the coracle left for him on the muddy bank. The back of his neck tingled, as if someone was watching him, but he turned too late to see clearly the dark figure that disappeared into the smoke of the cooking fires. He told himself it meant nothing, the man had no doubt been staring at the water, not him. But why had he then dropped out of sight when Owen turned? He was uneasy as he fought his way across the rushing current.

  On the other side, Owen pulled the coracle onto the rock, tied it up, passed under the dragon that leered upside down from the prow of the longboat, and knocked on Magda Digby’s door. When he received no answer, he opened the door gingerly, peered round it. As he had thought, Magda Digby, midwife and healer, was bent over a patient.

  “Draining old Daniel’s wound, Bird-eye. Thou canst wait quietly.”

  The hut was smoky and dusty from the herbs that hung drying from the planks of the longboat. “I’ll wait without.”

  Magda nodded, intent on her work.

  As Owen sat down on a bench facing back toward York, he felt the watcher’s eyes upon him, but could pick out no one on the bank. Though he breathed in the damp river air and tried to relax, a shower of needle pricks across his blind left eye revealed his tension. He rubbed his scarred eye beneath the patch that hid the worst of the disfigurement.

  It was not the watcher on the bank that worried Owen. Magda’s messenger had not known why the Riverwoman wanted Owen, just that “thou must come today.” Owen feared Magda had bad news about his wife’s health or that of the babe she carried. His stomach churned. He could not bear the thought of losing Lucie. And something of her spirit would die if she lost this child.

  Not a man who could sit still for long in the best of circumstances, Owen rose from the bench to pace.

  At last Magda appeared, rubbing her eyes, stretching with a satisfied sigh. She wore a colorful dress made from the squares of wool on which she tested dyeing plants. Sewn together they formed a shapeless gown that confused the eye of the beholder when Magda moved quickly, which she invariably did despite her great age. Her grizzled hair was tucked up into a clean kerchief.

  “Old Daniel’s shoulder will heal?” Owen asked.

  Magda squinted up at him. “Aye, Bird-eye.” Gnarled fists on hips, she leaned back and studied Owen’s face. “Such a frown thou wearest! Art thou so concerned for old Daniel?” Her deep-set eyes teased, though her mouth was stern.

  Owen sank down onto the bench. “In truth, it’s your purpose in calling me here that worries me.”

  “Magda might ask thee to imperil thy soul, is that what thou fearest?” She threw back her head and gave a loud, barking laugh.

  “No. I fear you’ve summoned me because something is amiss with Lucie.”

  “Thy child’s coming is the center of thy world at present.” Magda shook her grizzled head and sat down beside Owen. “Thy wife is a Master Apothecary, Bird-eye, she knows to take care of herself. And with Magda assisting—who has delivered more babes than thou canst imagine—all will be well.” She patted his knee.

  Owen closed his eye and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  Magda grunted, folded her arms, leaned back against the wall. “Magda must go up into the Dales. She asks thee to guard her house for two nights.” She snorted as Owen glanced back at the ramshackle building with a puzzled expression. “What is to guard against but wind and flood, eh? Magda reads thy mind, Bird-eye.” She rose, motioned for him to follow her round the house. Under the stern of the old ship that capped the hut stood a jar almost as tall as Magda herself. “Magda’s bone jar, that is what’s to guard. The bone man comes in two days.”

  Owen laughed. Who would steal such a thing? He had once shifted the jar for her and knew its heft. “You fear the bones will walk before the relic dealer arrives, do you?”

  Magda frowned. “Laugh not. A man has been watching Magda’s house, waiting for her to leave. He knows of the bone jar. He knows a leg and part of an arm wait in the jar for the bone man, who gives them a Christian burial.”

  “You have the bones buried? Is that common practice?”

  Magda shrugged. “It’s Magda’s way.”

  “Why not make some profit on them?”

  The sharp eyes bored through him. “Thinkst thou art clever? Pah. Magda pities the poor wretches who pray to dried skin and bones, expecting miracle cures. She won’t be part of such traffic.”

  “This thief won’t come for them while you’re here?”

  Magda shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Thou knowest why, Bird-eye. Some folk think that because they do not see Magda in church she is a spell-casting heathen. They fear Magda.”

  Owen could not deny that. “I could dispose of the bones for you. ”

  The Riverwoman shook her head. “Magda’s bone man prays over them as he buries them. Magda does not have the prayers. Nor dost thou, not the proper prayers.”

  The Riverwoman’s beliefs puzzled Owen, though Lucie seemed to understand them. She said that faith came hard to Magda. She must see to believe. But Magda understood that most folk needed the Church to comfort them and keep them on the path of righteousness. “Your bone man is a priest?”

  “A friar.”

  Magda placed her trust in the oddest creatures. “Friars are not opposed to relics. Why trust him?”

  “He understands Magda removes curséd limbs. They must be left in peace.”

  Generous man; there was money to be made in relics. Owen hoped Magda was not being cheated. “And you want me to sleep here and scare off anyone who lurks about?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why me?”

  “Thou art a good man, Bird-eye. Thou’lt let thy God guide thee.”
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br />   God guide him in catching a thief. A strange way of putting it, but in the end it was God’s hand guided all men in their work. Owen shrugged. “You have done much for me and asked naught in return. It’s time I returned the favor.” It was a change from the political webs in which the archbishop was wont to snare him.

  The wrinkles deepened about her mouth and eyes as the Riverwoman smiled. “Magda knew thou wouldst aid her. Though thou lookst a rogue thou art a gentle man, Bird-eye. See thou takest care. Thou hast a family would miss thee and curse Magda if aught happened to thee.”

  “Lucie is close to her time. What if the babe—”

  “Peace, Bird-eye. Magda knows the signs. Lucie is not ready. Magda will return in time. See that thou comest tomorrow evening.”

  “This thief will stay away during the day?”

  “Young Jack will watch during the day. Easy for the lad to draw attention in daylight if he needs help. Not so easy at night.”

  Owen should have known Magda would think of everything.

  Long before sunset the next day Owen passed out the gates of the city. He picked his way down to the riverbank through mud and the ramshackle huts of the poor, looking for the man who had watched him the previous day. A cat sniffed and followed, hoping to trick him out of the sweet he carried in his bag. Children watched him uneasily, his height, his dark beard, and the patch over his scarred face all fearful. Would his own child fear him so?

  He searched the vermin city and found no one as well fed as a relic dealer. At last he gave up and rowed the coracle over to Magda’s rock.

  Young Jack had been waiting. He jumped up, eager to get off the island before dark.

  “Did anyone bother you today, lad?”

  “Nay, Captain Archer. ’Twas a quiet day.”

  Owen drew a cup covered in oiled cloth from his bag and from it pulled a slice of angelica stem dipped in honey. “Mistress Wilton thought you might enjoy this.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Captain!”

  Owen returned it to the cup and handed it to Jack. “There’s a cat waiting on the bank for it. Take care to hold it high.”

  The boy carefully placed it on the floor of the coracle and picked up the oar.

  “See that you return early,” Owen said as he untied the boat and eased it into the water.

  “I won’t fail you, Captain,” the boy cried as he paddled off.

  Owen watched that Jack reached the riverbank without mishap, then walked round the outside of the house before heading in. Within, fresh straw had been spread on the mud floor. Owen wondered where Magda got so much energy at her age. Though no one in York knew how old she was, no one could remember her not being here. Even Bess Merchet, proprietress of the York Tavern and reservoir of city history, could not say how old Magda was or whence she’d come to the odd house on the rock. Magda was a good friend to him and Lucie, but they knew little about her. Owen might learn something of Magda’s past with a careful search of the house. Tempting, but he would not so betray a friendship.

  He went outside, settled on the bench facing back toward the city, poured himself some ale from the jug he’d brought with him, and settled in to watch and wait. He leaned back and looked up at the dragon’s head silhouetted against the evening sky. What sort of folk went to sea with such a monster on their prow? Why did Magda choose such a thing to crown her house? She made a joke of it, but why had she really chosen it? To guard the jar?

  For that matter, how did he know what was actually in the jar? A leg and part of an arm, would those call for a constant watch? What did Magda care whether the bones went to a relic dealer or were given a Christian burial? And what was the point of a Christian burial if the limbs were not with the rest of the body? When the bones rose up on Judgment Day, how were they to find the rest of the body and rejoin it?

  Owen stood and shook his arms and legs to loosen them after his long sit in the damp air. Silly thoughts he was having. He looked about him. The stars were brightening in the darkening sky and the water lapped quietly away from the north side of the rock. He walked slowly round the house, listening for sounds nearby. Nothing but the water and his own footsteps.

  He approached the jar, standing tall and silent, its lid secure. Perhaps he should have looked within while it was light. What if the thief had already struck? Owen considered getting a lantern and checking now. He put his hands on either side and gently rocked the jar. Felt much the same as the day Magda had asked him to move it for her. It had been empty then. Perhaps it was empty now and he was playing the fool. He rocked it again. Something shifted within.

  No doubt he would be uneasy until he looked inside.

  Owen continued his circuit of the hut, then went in to get a lantern. He cursed himself when he found the fire almost out. Had he come in much later he would have spent a cold night in the dark. Now he must take the time to stoke the fire.

  By the time Owen had the fire burning once more, he was thirsty and hungry. He spread his cold meal of bread, cheese, and meat out on a table and poured himself an ale. Sitting down, he stretched his booted feet out toward the fire and took a long, satisfying drink, then bent to the food. He was noisily chewing the hard-crusted bread when he heard a noise at the door. He stopped chewing, held his breath—heard nothing but the gentle lapping of the water and the far off cries of the night watchmen. He had not realized how much time had passed. Perhaps he should make a circuit of the rock before he finished his meal. And take a look inside the jar. He lit a lantern and stepped outside.

  Something came whistling through the air toward Owen’s head. He stepped back and the missile flew past him, falling with a plop into the river. Closing the shutter on the lantern, Owen dropped down to a squat. It was now quite dark and a mist rose up from the river, not too thick, but just enough to shield him as long as he stayed low. He peered out into the dark but saw no one moving. Nor did he hear anyone. Staying low, he crept to the corner of the building and listened. The tide was out and the mud would noisily suck at a walker’s feet. Nothing. His attacker must be on the rock.

  Still in a crouch, Owen edged along the north side of the house toward the back. A scraping sound. He paused. Heard it again. The sound echoed. He hurried round the corner, saw at first only the jar. But the scraping sound came again. Now he noticed motion at the top of the jar. The thief was working on the lid.

  Owen sat back on his heels and considered his options. He could open the shutter and surprise the thief with the light. After all, where could the thief run? And how likely was it he could outrun Owen? But tackling him to the ground would be far more satisfying. Owen had worked up a lot of tension and a nice, physical attack would help work it off. But he must not be too violent; he wanted to find out who the thief was and why he attacked Owen but not Magda.

  Inching closer, keeping against the house, Owen gradually saw the man’s outline, smelled his fear. He waited—the thief was the same height as the jar and it would be difficult to keep his arms stretched up to work at the lid for long. When he lowered his arms, shaking them, Owen leapt. He knocked the thief to the rocky ground with a satisfying thud.

  “Sweet Jesu, you’ve broken my limbs!” the thief cried.

  “More for the jar,” Owen muttered. He rose and pulled the thief up by his clothes. The man wobbled and crumpled against Owen. For pity’s sake, what was such a weak cur doing thieving? Owen grabbed him up and slung him over his shoulder. The man whimpered, but he did not struggle.

  Inside, Owen dropped his limp burden onto one of Magda’s cots and finally got a look at the thief in the firelight. He was astonished. “John Fortescue! What does the clerk of the Mercers’ Guild want with the Riverwoman’s bones?”

  The wizened face of the young man crinkled in shame. “Captain Archer, forgive me.” He tried to sit up, winced, and fell back clutching his left arm.

  Seeing John’s pain, Owen regretted the fury of his attack. John was a frail young man, aged beyond his years by some curse that wrinkled his
skin and bent his body like an old man. “You fell on the arm and broke it, eh? I’m sorry. But I’ll be damned if I can think of an innocent explanation for your activities tonight.” Owen searched Magda’s worktable for bandages and a splint.

  John lay still. “I was thieving, Captain Archer. It’s the unholy truth.”

  Armed with the necessary supplies and a jug of brandywine, Owen knelt beside the cot. “Let me examine your arm.” Owen handed John the jug. “Drink some of this.” He felt round on the arm while John drank; a bone in the forearm had snapped like that of an old man. But it would not take much of a tug to set it. “Brace yourself.” Owen tugged. John made a terrible face, but kept stoically silent. Owen splinted the arm and bound it close to John’s body. “What of the leg? You stumbled when you stood up.”

  John wiggled his foot. “It’s my ankle. Sprained, I think.”

  Owen examined it, nodded, sat back on his heels. “You’ll do best to keep off it for a few days.” He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the clerk’s dark, mud spattered clothing, his pale, wrinkled face, the frightened eyes. “Why are you thieving, is what I wonder. You have neither the strength nor the temperament for it. Nor the need, I should think—the chief clerk of the richest guild in the city—surely you are well paid.”

  “I am after health, not wealth,” John said softly, keeping his eyes downcast. “But I did not start out to steal, Captain. I asked the Riverwoman if I might have the skin off the boy’s arm. She refused. Said it must be given a proper burial.”

  “Her arrangement for the bones is an odd one, I’ll grant you that. But what did you want with the skin? And how did you know about the arm?”

  John bit his lower lip, a naughty child explaining his behavior. “It is for a remedy—for afflictions of the skin. I must bind a piece of young, unblemished skin to my forehead for seven days and seven nights. At sunset on the seventh day I crawl the length of York Minster while chanting a Latin charm, and then I have a seventh son bury the skin that night—the seventh night.”