The Riddle of St Leonard's Read Free Page A

Don Erkenwald had already seen to that, writing to Sir Richard about the hospital’s financial troubles being made public. Ravenser might be busy in Westminster as Keeper of the Hanaper and Queen’s Receiver, but surely not too busy to care about the reputation of his hospital. Erkenwald hoped that the master might even now be planning a journey north to mingle with the important families of the city and convince them that all was well. It was not the time to allow such lies to poison the people’s opinion of the good works St Leonard’s accomplished, not now, when the merchant guilds were building elegant halls and housing their own sick and elderly in the undercrofts. These were the very merchants on whom they depended for generous gifts to support St Leonard’s.
    On his almoner’s rounds among the poor, Erkenwald now made it his business to ask whether anyone had seen aught, or heard aught about Walter de Hotter’s death that seemed more than rumour. On one of the afternoons when he stole some time to practise at the butts on St George’s Field – his vows had not obliterated his training as a soldier – Erkenwald asked the advice of one said to be the best spy in the north.
    While he unstrung his bow, Owen Archer listened with interest – until Erkenwald came to the motivation.
    ‘Murdering a respected merchant to ruin a rival hospital’s reputation?’ The tall, one-eyed man grinned. ‘You should go back to soldiering. All that prayer has softened your wits.’
    Erkenwald laughed at that. ‘Prayer. There are those in my house who would say I pray too little. ’Tis why they chose Cuthbert over me. Prayer is ever his response. Every time another treasure disappears he hies to church and prays. I suppose he believes the good Lord has decided to redistribute the wealth of St Leonard’s.’
    ‘I had not heard of any thefts.’
    ‘Well, and that is as it should be. In that I agree with Cuthbert. I suppose a thief in our midst is not a story merchants would care to use, being thieves themselves, eh?’
    ‘What is missing?’
    Erkenwald needed no coaxing. He knew the story would go no further, and perhaps Archer would see a pattern in it. ‘Riches, to be sure. A gold chalice finely wrought, a delicate silver missal cover, goblets of Italian glass. Such things.’
    ‘And Don Cuthbert’s response to such a loss is to pray?’
    ‘He does little else.’ But Erkenwald saw that Owen’s attention wandered: he fidgeted with his quiver of arrows. No matter. The information was his to use. ‘I thank you for listening, Captain.’
    ‘Forgive my haste. My children leave for the country on the morrow. I have much to do.’
    ‘You send them to Mistress Wilton’s father?’
    ‘We do.’
    ‘To keep them from the pestilence?’
    Owen pressed the scar below his eyepatch. ‘Foolish, eh? As if Death did not walk all the countryside.’
    ‘Still, a wise precaution.’
    ‘God go with you, Don Erkenwald.’
    As Owen walked away, the canon noticed a slump in the archer’s shoulders, which was not in character. To send his children away must have been a difficult decision.
    John Thoresby and Richard de Ravenser sat quietly on the barge travelling up the Thames. The afternoon sun had warmed the river water to an unpleasantly pungent degree, but at least a breeze stirred their rich garments where they sat beneath the awning. Their men-at-arms were not so fortunate; they stood in their own sweat in the sunlight. Thoresby watched the swans on the river, ghostly shadows amidst the reeds and grass along the bank. He felt his nephew studying him. Did he think to find his future in his uncle’s face? Folk often commented on the two men’s appearance: outwardly so similar, they seemed the same man at two stages in life, prime and, well, it must be said, old age. But it was an illusion. In soul they were nothing alike. Ravenser was enjoying the journey; he smiled now and waved at a lady on a passing barge who was being