The Cross Legged Knight by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online Page A

eyes. It was not like her to be so drowsy when so much had happened. ‘It is passing strange, that of all the houses in York, it is Wykeham’s that catches fire, and less than a week after he arrives,’ she murmured.
    ‘It is a dry autumn.’
    ‘Still.’
    ‘I pray you do not dream of the surgery you just witnessed.’
    Lucie did not respond. Her breathing was deep and slow.

Four
     
RUMINATION
     
    T horesby paced his parlour long after Wykeham had retired for the night. Never had Thoresby disappointed the Church when he might help her and he would not fail her now. He would protect the Bishop of Winchester even against his ally the Duke of Lancaster, putting aside his disapproval of the man himself.
    But how? He must try to reconstruct the events since the mishap with the tile a few days earlier. The Pagnell steward had come but a few hours after the incident at the lady chapel with a note from Lady Pagnell angrily denying a rumour that her family was behind it and requesting that under the circumstances Wykeham absent himself from Sir Ranulf’s funeral – as if the bishop had intended to play the uninvited guest. It was the first Thoresby had heard of the rumour. But by the following day even Sir Ranulf’s level-headed daughter Emma Ferriby was caught up in the atmosphere of ill will.
    *
    After presiding over his old friend’s requiem mass, Thoresby had been restless, unable to apply himself to any task. He had returned to York Minster seeking a quiet moment in the Pagnell chapel to make peace with Ranulf. But he found Emma Ferriby still kneeling before her father’s tomb, her veiled head bowed, her gloved hands pressed in prayer. A wisp of incense hung in the air over the marble effigy, not yet dispelled by the drafts that criss-crossed the great minster.
    Thoresby had imagined the family and mourners long dispersed. Not wishing to interrupt Mistress Ferriby’s grief, he began to back away, but a pebble betrayed him.
    Emma raised her head, turned towards him abruptly, her back tensed. ‘Who is it?’ As the veil swung away from her face Thoresby saw the marks of her weeping and was even sorrier for having disturbed her.
    But the damage had been done. ‘Forgive my trespass. I did not think to find you here still.’
    ‘You are welcome here, Your Grace.’ Emma had a low voice for such a small woman, a calming voice, even when ragged with emotion, as now.
    Thoresby knelt beside her and bowed his head in the prayer that had been his purpose in returning to the minster. His old friend’s death had been difficult to bear, dying in a French prison of a wasting disease while his ransom was being negotiated. Wykeham was sadly right, Sir Ranulf had been too old to return to France and resume the persona he had created thirty years before as a spy for King Edward – his failing memory had betrayed him. Thoresby had warned Ranulf, but the knight had insisted that God called him on the mission. Despite his frailty the old knight had been honourable to the end, refusing to divulge anyother names to his captors. For that he had been tortured, Thoresby was sure of it, though diplomatic channels denied it, claiming that it was the heat of summer that had led them to bury Sir Ranulf in haste, saving only his heart, now buried here.
    Thoresby had grieved to hear of that last indignity. Ever since he had witnessed the removal of a heart from a corpse, seen how the flesh was torn open, the ribs cracked, he had agreed with Pope Boniface that severing or removing any part of the body was a desecration. It seemed impossible after such mutilation that the body would arise whole on the day of resurrection. Sir Ranulf had not deserved that.
    Thoresby’s aged knees began to ache. Emma Ferriby had lifted her head and now studied her father’s tomb. She had taken charge of the stonemason for the work, knowing her brothers would settle for something less than Sir Ranulf deserved, that they had thought him foolish to return to the