The Ravens' Augury by L J Shea

Author:L J Shea [Shea, L J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2017-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I found Ralph in the chamber where I had first met with Lord Rochester four days earlier, hard at work overlooking the household accounts of the castle. He was seated at the large oak table, making good use of the morning light that shone through the room’s square window. Many documents were spread in front of him, and his fine white quill moved furiously across the page. The smell of ink and parchment assailed my nostrils as I entered the musty room. It was as much a part of the steward’s person as his heads for numbers, I thought.

He looked up as I walked in, offering me a generous smile. “Greetings, Master Baudin.” He rubbed his eyes, which were red from poring closely over the household accounts. “I am getting old I’m afraid, and my poor eyes are not what they once were.”

“Good morrow, Ralph. Hard at work I see?” I said amiably.

“Always! Just drumming up the funds to finance some entertainment that His Lordship has planned.”

“I see. Ralph, how long have you worked for the earl? You have been here at Rochester Castle for as long as I have been alderman,” I asked, trying to sound conversational.

He scratched his head. “Oh goodness me, now you are making me think. Well, let me see. About one score I suppose – not so long as Father Anthony,” he laughed. “My grandfather was a Lombard moneylender with a gift for usury, and he taught me much about finance when I was a boy. He convinced my father to send me here to work before he died.”

It was time to make my move. “Do you have time to take a short leave from your labours, Master Steward?” I asked. “I would like to introduce you to my mother, who tends the ailing Sir Giles. She is a healer. Perhaps she can give you something for your tired eyes,” I smiled. I did not feel all that comfortable using subterfuge when dealing with a fellow as decent as Ralph, but these were desperate times.

He considered for a moment. “Well, perhaps I could take a brief respite before the funeral this afternoon,” he said, rising from his chair to stretch his long limbs. “A short rest would be most welcome. These accounts can wait. After you, Master Baudin.”

The door to the infirmary was open when we arrived. We stepped quietly into the room, where Sir Giles lay flat on his back in a narrow bed, covered by a white sheet. A servant girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose sat beside him, her young face drawn. Suddenly, he began tossing his head from side to side.

“Please sir, you must lay still!” she cried, putting her hands on either side of his head, carefully avoiding the place where he had been struck.

I heard the sound of rustling fabric, and looked up to see my mother bustling over from behind a curtain screen, presumably where she prepared her medicines. She wore a woollen gown of burgundy.

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