Free The Riddle of St Leonard's by Candace Robb

task.
    Erkenwald wished to go somewhere to be alone to think; or, better yet, find Owen Archer. But Cuthbert had asked him to accompany him to the cellarer’s garden. There was no avoiding it. Erkenwald was himself to blame for involving the man.
    The little cellarer stood in front of a cluster of comfrey heavy with bloom. He trembled with rage. ‘Have I not instructed you to keep still to the world at large about our problems?’
    ‘God help me, but you do begin far into the matter,’ Erkenwald said. ‘Of what do you accuse me?’
    ‘Now Mistress Merchet has heard her uncle’s tale.’
    ‘She is his niece. She has a right to know.’
    ‘You—’
    ‘I told her nothing. Master Taverner told her. How did you hope to hide it? She might have thought little of it, but your secrecy made it a discovery. What are you doing about it, eh? Have you spoken with people who might have seen aught? Do you realise how dangerous it is to have a murderer loose?’
    ‘Murderer.’ Cuthbert spat out the word. ‘You do not believe his story?’
    ‘And why not? Do you have a better explanation for the knot on his head? And the one that felled Master Warrene?’
    ‘We have never had such problems before.’
    ‘Oh? What of Walter de Hotter?’
    ‘That had naught to do with the hospital.’
    ‘And the thefts?’
    Cuthbert blanched. ‘Those I cannot explain.’
    ‘Do you know what folk are saying? That your reformed sinner Honoria de Staines wears underskirts of linen. That when away from the hospital her wimple is of silk.’
    ‘Mistress Staines is not a thief.’
    Erkenwald shook his head. The time had come to rattle the cellarer’s complacency. ‘You will have much to explain to Sir Richard.’
    ‘I pray that all will be quiet once more before his next visitation.’
    ‘I doubt it. He has sent word that he is on his way from the south.’
    Cuthbert pressed his hands to his stomach, closed his eyes. ‘You betrayed me.’
    ‘I did what I thought best.’

Seven
A Vow to Heal
     
    O wen questioned his wisdom in bringing Jasper out this morning. The wind was from the south and the sky a sickly grey, neither stormy nor fair; the sort of weather some said brought pestilence. Owen was not inclined to believe it, or the new fear of river mist. Such weather was common and far more often than not brought nothing more horrible than a lack of sunshine. But the quiet streets made him wonder whether he was being foolhardy. Jasper, too, seemed disturbed, gazing about with a worried frown.
    The gate of Davy Hall was latched and chained as if the family had fled to the country. The few folk in the streets scurried about their business, heads low, many holding scented bags close to their faces. Near the Franciscan friary the street was almost deserted. A friar made the sign of the cross as he hurried past them and slipped into the friary, from which came a familiar smell.
    ‘Juniper wood,’ Jasper said.
    ‘Aye. ’Tis a pleasant scent, though I do not know whether I believe burning it can save a man from the poisoned air.’ They headed down to the staithe and walked along the jetty that would bring them quickly to St George’s Field.
    ‘Mistress Baker wondered whether smoke from the hospital fire carried pestilence.’
    ‘Alice Baker discovers new causes and cures each day. I would not pay her much heed, Jasper.’
    But the boy was not so easily dissuaded. ‘What did Mistress Merchet say? Were they burning the dead?’
    Thus began a rumour founded on naught. ‘Mistress Baker should not speak of what she does not know. They were not burning the dead at the hospital. A house caught fire.’ Owen did not add that Laurence de Warrene had been burning the clothing of a plague victim.
    ‘Mistress Merchet seemed most upset.’
    ‘Oh, aye, she was that. Her uncle’s friend died in the fire. And her uncle, who tried to save him, has burns and injuries that will take long to mend.’
    ‘How did it happen?’
    ‘They say Laurence de