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

  As his wife’s apprentice in the apothecary, Owen had heard many such remedies. “It sounds harmless enough; except that such charms usually call for the skin of a pig or some other flesh readily available.”

  The clerk took a deep, shivery breath, crossed himself. “So it has all been for naught. Blessed Mary, Mother of God, forgive me my sin.” He rubbed his arm; his eyes glittered with tears.

  “What did Magda tell you?”

  John wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said that I must accept the truth, that my affliction is not of the skin, but affects every part of me. My body is in haste to grow old and expire. There is no cure for it.” John picked up the jug of ale and drank, then passed it to Owen. “But I thought, what harm was there in trying? The Lord might hear my prayer. Who was she to judge whether He would choose to bless me?” He sighed. “Now I pay for my arrogance.”

  Owen understood. Well he knew how desperate the afflicted one was to put his body right. The loss of Owen’s eye had meant the loss of his world—no longer was he worthy to be Henry of Lancaster’s captain of archers. Even after Lancaster’s physician had declared him blind in his left eye, Owen had tortured himself with tests, thinking he’d seen a glimmer of light on the left. “When I first came to York, I hoped Magda might cure my blindness. But she told me that there was nothing more to be done.” He took a drink. “It was not easy to accept. She knew. She said I would ever after see her as partly to blame. And I do sometimes, God forgive me.”

  “And why not blame her? She condemned me to sit and wait for an early death.”

  “We all face death, John.”

  The angry look surprised Owen. “You don’t understand. When an old man wrinkles and weakens into a shuffling gait, he thanks the Lord for a good life and looks forward to eternal rest. I am not ready for that. I have not yet lived.”

  Owen pitied him. But surely it did him no good to brood. “Seems to me you’ve done a bit of living tonight, haven’t you now? Creeping out here, slinking round, attacking me. ” He laughed, picked up the jug and drank again, waiting for an echo of laughter. But John had lain down and covered his head with his arm.

  “What I’ve told you—about the pig’s skin—it simplifies things, doesn’t it?”

  John shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You didn’t tell me how you learned about the arm, John.”

  “A traveler. He delivered some items to the guild hall. He told me about the charm and said the Riverwoman would have what I needed.” The voice was muffled under the arm.

  Suddenly Owen jumped up. “He was your a partner, wasn’t he? He was out there tonight.”

  John lay very still.

  Good Lord, he’d been so stupid. “I should have seen it was too easy. You were distracting me.”

  “And all for naught,” the muffled voice whined.

  “Not for your partner, you fool. He’s got the bones and a good head start.” Owen took the lantern and rushed out into the night. He shoved the flat stone lid off the jar and let it fall with a clatter while he trained the light on the inside. Empty. He shined the lantern out on the mud flat, but he knew it was useless. While he’d been playing the good Samaritan in the hut, the thief had taken the bones and escaped. He’d known Owen wouldn’t be listening, thinking he’d caught his thief—and injured him. Furious with himself, Owen picked up the stone lid and threw it into the river. He wanted to put his fist through the wall of the house, grab John Fortescue by the neck and throttle him—but what would be the point? John was the victim as much as he. Owen sat down on the bank and tried to calm himself.

  When his mind cleared, he went inside, seeking answers.

  John sat up, waiting for him, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Why did your thief put Magda on her guard?”

  “He didn’t know where she kept the bones, and he didn’t want to linger here, searching all those boxes and jars piled up against the house. He said she would watch the bones if we worried her, and then we’d know. He was clever.”

  “Easy to be clever when you’re working with fools.” Owen sat down and glumly drained the jug of ale.

  Owen went out to the rock as soon as he had word Magda was back. She sat on the bench beneath the serpent, mending a shoe. Without looking up, she said, “Magda knows the worst.”

  He sank down beside her. “I failed you. I’ll make no excuses.”

  “Thou wert there to protect the innocent fool, Bird-eye.”

  “But the bones are gone. Sold by now, no doubt.”

  Magda chuckled. “If only Magda might have seen the thief’s face at dawn, when he took out the bones and saw his treasure. Or woke to its smell.” She was overtaken by a bout of mirth.

  Owen had a sinking feeling. How many people had fooled him? “What were they?”

  “The bones of an old goat that strayed onto the mud flats and died.”

  “And the bones for the bone man?”

  “He came before Magda left.” She patted Owen’s knee. “Magda is not disappointed in thee. Thou hast done as Magda had hoped. John will heal, and he has seen the folly of his search for a miracle. The thief is gone, no more spying on Magda.”

  “No doubt I’ve learned something, too, though I cannot see it. Why did you have me here?”

  “If he had felt no danger, the thief would have examined the bones, Bird-eye, and spoiled Magda’s fun.”

  “But what of poor John?”

  “Fortescue respects thee. He will not wish to appear a fool to thee again, so he will behave now. So.” She snipped the thread, squinted up at Owen. “How dost thou like working for Magda? A nice change from politics?”

  Owen rubbed his scar. “In truth I’d rather a month on the road for the archbishop than another night in your hut.”

  Magda turned the mended shoe inside out, tugged it on, stood up, hopped, nodded. “Suit thyself, Bird-eye,” she said with a shrug and went inside.

  Owen did not leave at once, but sat there, staring down at the rising tide, trying to remember what it had been like to be able to see upstream as well as down. At last he gave up. A useless exercise. That had been another life. He headed for home.

  More from Candace Robb

  Read the rest of the Owen Archer series. Available Now!

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  The Service of the Dead

  by Candace Robb

  Available from Pegasus Books

  1

  A Runaway Wagon, a Box of Cinnamon

  York, early February 1399

  One moment Kate was laughing as Griselde called Matt back for yet another “final” instruction, and the next she was watching in horror as the young man stepped into the street, cried out, and fell beneath a runaway wagon. She rushed into High Petergate calling out for someone to help her lift the wagon and was quickly surrounded by a cluster of men, one of whom barked orders.

  The housekeeper tried to draw Kate aside. “Come, come, Mistress Clifford. Best not to look,” Griselde murmured.

  Kate shrugged her off. Bloody, mangled bodies were nothing new to her. Carts and wagons and the animals pulling them were dangerous in York’s crowded, narrow streets. Kate had seen a man decapitated when a cart pinned him against a stone wall, a boy’s arm severed by a wheel, an infant crushed by a frightened horse. “I will see to him,” she said to the housekeeper. Griselde withdrew.

  The men had moved the wagon to one side. Matt lay on the cobbles— limp, unconscious, but whole. “Bleeding from the back of his head,” one of the men said. “Should we lift him?”

  Griselde had disappeared back into Kate’s guesthouse and now returned, holding out a blanket. “Roll him onto this, bring him inside.” She crossed herself as they carried him past. “God walks with that young man.”

  Kate said nothing. She did not believe in miracles. Matt’s reflexes had saved him. He had managed to roll between the wheels. She collared a passing boy and offered him a penny to fetch Matt’s father from the Shambles. When she turned back to the
house she was shaking so badly she paused for a few breaths to steady herself and find her legs. A crowd had formed round the wagon, discussing it, arguing about who owned it, who was responsible, who was to blame.

  • • •

  By midmorning, Matt had been removed to his father’s house under the watchful eyes of his cousin, a healer. She’d listed his injuries as a bruised head, a deep cut on his ear, scraped hands, and a badly sprained leg— nothing life-threatening. Kate was not so certain. She had seen how hard he’d fallen. His head had hit the cobbles. Time would tell.

  She sat in the guesthouse kitchen cupping a bowl of ale in her hands, trying to think what to do. The fact was, Kate needed Matt, and she needed him now. With his strength and agility, his smiling, easy nature, and his remarkable patience, he was the perfect manservant for the couple who ran her guesthouse. Heaven knew the elderly couple needed all the assistance Kate could provide them in the coming weeks. Lady Kirkby, a prominent noblewoman, was coming to stay, and she would be accompanied by a household of servants and retainers. She would arrive the day after tomorrow, and she planned to entertain prominent citizens at dinners in the guesthouse hall. Kate must find someone to replace Matt for the time being. A selfish consideration, but business was business.

  “I could spare old Sam today,” Kate offered Griselde, who had just settled down with her own cup of ale. “Could you use him?”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I am ready for this evening’s guests. But I would welcome help tomorrow. Perhaps someone with a bit more strength than Sam?” The housekeeper shook her head. “Whose wagon, that is what I would like to know.” No one had claimed it yet. The men had moved it beneath the eaves, tucking it up against the front of the guesthouse. “Filled with stones, did you notice?” Griselde stared down into her cup. “I’d wager it was a servant, and he’s run off to avoid punishment.”

  “The owner will turn up then. When Master Frost comes this evening, you might have a word with him. He has the mayor’s ear. Someone must take responsibility for this.”

  Griselde promised to mention it if she had a chance.

  Kate glanced round the room. “Is Clement abed?” The housekeeper’s husband was infirm with age.

  “He is. Gathering his strength for tomorrow.” Griselde leaned forward. “But he can barely wait to learn how Master Lionel explained the discrepancy on the accounts.”

  “I will tell him myself on the morrow, after I’ve spoken to my brother-in-law. We meet this evening.” Kate rose. “Young Seth Fletcher might do to help you. His father’s asked whether I had work for him. In any case, I will arrange for someone to come to you tomorrow.”

  Out on the street the wind had picked up, twisting Kate’s skirts about her. She moved back under the eaves and regarded the wagon with its load of stones. She noticed that some were caked with mud as if recently dug up. Someone building a wall? Kate drew a shaky breath, then pressed her hand to her stomach at the vivid image that rose in her mind of Matt crushed beneath the weight of the load. It might have been so much worse.

  Passersby paused to ask after Matt. Kate kept her answer simple and consistent, that he should recover in time. Until she had more information to share, she would say as little as possible. What if Matt lost the leg? Or his head did not clear? The accident bothered her. Was it possible someone wished Matt harm? Why? He was young, inexperienced, of no standing in the city. Had he not been the intended victim? The street had been fairly crowded. Had his appearance at just that moment foiled someone’s plan? Suspicion was a habit she had developed in her youth on the northern border with Scotland, and she had been in York long enough to know that the absence of Scots did not guarantee peace. Merchants squabbled among themselves, and the nobles likewise. Faith, even the king was quarreling with his cousin and heir, an enmity that many feared could lead to civil war. Neither had the temperament simply to agree to disagree; one of them must die.

  It put her own problems in a less threatening light. Small comfort.

  She suggested to a few of the curious that they send for one of the sheriffs to take charge of the wagon and remove it, clearing the street. At last she found someone eager to do just that. He hurried off with an air of gleeful conspiracy.

  She put up the hood of her cloak and set off down Petergate into Stonegate, avoiding the frozen mounds of refuse uncovered by the partial thaw. Snow was glorious in the countryside, a nightmare in the city. As she crossed St. Helen’s Square and turned down Coney Street, she jumped aside to avoid a tinker and his cart. She’d overreacted, skittish because of Matt. The tinker had seen her and veered to one side. This time. In truth it was a wonder there were not more disasters in the city. It was not natural to live so close, so packed together. She told herself that the earlier incident might well have been nothing more than an all-too-common accident.

  She eased her vigilance as she turned onto Castlegate and the prospect opened up, gardens bordering the street, a wide swathe on both sides bare of buildings—Thomas Holme’s manor within the city walls. The wealthy merchant, her late husband’s partner in trade, owned most of the land on either side of Castlegate between Coppergate and the grounds of York Castle, and he had clustered the buildings in a way that allowed for beautiful gardens to surround his house. They spilled across Castlegate, round the back of St. Mary’s Church with its small maison dieu, and down to the River Foss. Kate’s own house was on a small messuage just beyond Holme’s house. Here she could breathe more easily than in the cramped streets closer to the minster. A low building fronting the street afforded small but private chambers for two of her servants and room for a tenant with a shop. That was currently empty. Another item on Kate’s ever-lengthening list of chores. She crossed beneath the archway into the yard of her house and felt her tension ease a bit more as her wolfhounds came bounding out to greet her. And as she knelt to pet them, she realized her eyes were brimming with tears.

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