The Cross Legged Knight Read Free

rumoured to be a high priority. But Owen could not imagine the duke behind such an act, either. In fact, he thought the incident had probably been an accident, with no one but a careless worker to blame for it.
    Luke was waiting at the foot of the scaffolding. ‘I heard you moving around up there. But I do not suppose the bishop would have made note of such noises. He would have thought it was one of us.’
    ‘You stand by your statement that you saw no one lurking about?’
    Luke stiffened. ‘Why should I lie, Captain?’
    ‘Why indeed.’ Owen silently noted that the mason had answered a question with a question.
    Luke reached up – Owen was taller than most men – and touched the beard that followed Owen’s jaw line. ‘Your hair’s so dark, the stone dust shows. It’s on your curly pate as well.’
    Brushing dust from his hair, Owen thanked the mason for his assistance and headed for the minster gate. He suspected the mason was holding somethingback, perhaps the clumsiness of a fellow worker, but Owen had wasted enough of this fine day. There was much to do in the apothecary garden before the first frost, and he did not want Lucie to grow impatient and see to it herself. She was still weak. Bending still sometimes made her dizzy.
    Just before Lammas day Lucie had fallen from a stool while replacing a large jar on a shelf in her apothecary. The jar had badly bruised her left hand and cut her arm as it shattered. But far worse, she had lost the child who would have been born a few months hence. She had bled much during and after the accident, particularly when she lost the child, and her strength had been slow in returning despite Magda Digby’s tisanes of watercress, nettle and beetroot, and her Aunt Phillippa’s additional concoctions of eggs and cabbage. The physicks could not restore her spirit.
    For days Lucie lay in bed whispering prayers of contrition. Cisotta, the young midwife who had attended Lucie in those first days, had assured Owen that women often behaved so after losing a child, some even after having a healthy baby. But when Magda Digby had returned from a birthing in the country and took over Lucie’s care, Owen could see her concern.
    Long after they had closed the account books, Lucie and Owen lingered at the table in the hall in the pool of lamplight. Jasper, Lucie’s apprentice and their adopted son, had gone to see a friend, and Phillippa and the children were in bed. Such a quiet moment seemed rare to Owen these days. Lucie did not seem to welcome idleness, but sought activity until she dropped on to the bed, exhausted. He knew she did not wish to think of the child they had lost. Even now her hands were not idle, she was tying mint sprigs together, her long,slender fingers moving quickly. The ghost of a smile touched her lips, in fact, her pretty face was alight with a calm contentment. She loved her garden almost as much as her first husband had, found in working with the plants a peace much as Owen’s mother had so long ago in Wales. He wished Lucie might have known his mother – they had much in common, a gift for healing, for knowing the right combination of herbs and roots for a person’s ailments. His mother would have liked the level regard with which Lucie viewed the world – though of late there was a darkness in her gaze.
    Tonight Owen noted deep blue shadows beneath her eyes. ‘You should have left the mint harvest to me,’ he said.
    ‘I took joy in it.’ She lifted one of the sprigs, held it close so he could smell it. ‘A few more days and it would be too late. Perhaps if Wykeham forgets about his mishap the other day you can help me with some of the other autumn chores.’
    ‘I am afraid he means to keep me occupied.’
    ‘I am sorry for that.’ As Lucie reached for another clump of mint she winced, withdrew her hand and pressed the other to her shoulder.
    ‘It is painful?’
    ‘It aches, yes, but lying abed will not mend it.’ She shook her head at him.