The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  Guy glanced back at Owen. ‘Can it not wait until morning?’

  ‘How could you rest with the prospect before you? Once you have unburdened yourself you will sleep and wake refreshed and able to assist us. I count on you tomorrow.’

  Guy stumbled. Owen found a grim pleasure in roughly righting him and moving him on. He let go only once, to have a quiet word with one of his men about an extra guard on Poins.

  Twenty-one

  THE DEVIOUS ONE

  A lamp by the parlour window flickered wildly in a draft, rearranging the planes of Wykeham’s face as he looked on the clerk whose greed had caused him such embarrassment and perhaps cost Sir Ranulf his life. ‘I thought of you as my son.’ The hands with which he clenched the arms of the chair were white-knuckled, the veins swollen and angry.

  Thoresby thought he knew what went through Wykeham’s heated head. He would slay Guy, but that it would give his enemies another tale to tell against him. Thoresby motioned to Michaelo to replenish the bishop’s cup.

  But before Michaelo had lifted the pitcher Wykeham set the cup aside, rose and crossed to the window, setting his back to Guy. By the movement of his sleeves and the bowing head Thoresby guessed Wykeham was covering his face. He thought to give him some peace in which to compose himself.

  ‘Why do you think we can trust this clerk to assist us tomorrow, Archer?’ Owen’s plan seemed fraught with risk. ‘Why should he?’

  ‘He will wish to be present to defend himself if Matthew contradicts his story,’ Owen said.

  Thoresby considered Guy, who slouched in his chair, his hands pressed together over his belly, his unlovely face creased into a penitential sadness. ‘Can we trust you to do as we have instructed you?’ Thoresby asked.

  Guy dropped his gaze to his hands. ‘I am your servant, Your Grace, though I would as lief sit in a dungeon than face that murderer.’

  A dungeon is where you belong. ‘If that is what you want, then that is precisely what you must not have, eh, Archer?’

  ‘As you will, Your Grace.’

  Thoresby would not have liked to be Guy, with Owen’s rough face expressing so much loathing.

  Wykeham suddenly spun round. ‘Trust him? No, we know that is foolhardy. But he will sit at that table tomorrow. He will be present when I tell Lady Pagnell of his deceit, and how King Charles’s unwillingness to release Sir Ranulf was no doubt due in part to the paltry sum put forth in the letters that my trusted clerk prepared for him.’

  ‘I did not change the letters to France,’ Guy protested.

  ‘No?’ Wykeham gave a little shrug, a very French shrug it seemed to Thoresby. ‘How do I know that? I cannot send a messenger to King Charles requesting the letters returned, now can I?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Owen said, breaking a charged silence, ‘is Guy to move freely about the palace?’

  Thoresby turned to Wykeham.

  ‘You need not fear laxness in me, Captain,’ said the bishop. ‘I shall instruct my men that he is to be under their escort at all times. We would not wish to lose our witness to Matthew’s crimes.’

  Owen bowed and prepared to leave, but Wykeham stopped him. ‘I would talk with you in private.’

  ‘You may use this parlour,’ said Thoresby. He nodded for the guard to take Guy away. ‘You will be staying in the palace tonight, Archer?’

  ‘I’ll sleep with my men, Your Grace.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Thoresby departed.

  Wykeham had knelt down at the prie-dieu in the corner of the room. As the silence settled, Owen poured himself a much-needed cup of wine and tried Thoresby’s great chair. He felt he deserved some comfort this night. Easing back into the cushions, he began to reconstruct the evening of the fire.

  ‘I never suspected Guy.’ Wykeham had joined him, seated now across the table where Owen usually sat.

  ‘Tell me what you know of him.’

  ‘Alain is the devious one. Guy has always been a model of virtue. I took him in when he was ten, an orphan who showed promise, educated him personally with an eye towards his service in the household. He disappointed only in his slovenly appearance, his inability to be light and joysome. But it did not affect his work. Tidy in conception and execution, he was all one wishes for in a clerk.’

  ‘I have seen him copy your signature,’ Owen said.

  ‘Of course. That is one of his gifts, a mastery of many hands.’

  ‘A gift which proved too tempting, My Lord.’

  ‘I see that now. It must have been simple for him to revise the accounts regarding Sir Ranulf’s ransom. Damn him!’ Wykeham cried out and looked away, struggling to control his breathing. ‘He had no need to cheat,’ he said softly. ‘He was well provided for. He has been with me for so long, Captain. He has moved up with me, accompanied me everywhere, even to my prebendaries before I gave them up for the bishopric. He always served me well. Now Alain …’

  ‘You called him devious.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And his family moves in Lancastrian circles.’

  ‘What? You had hoped to buy some support from the enemy?’

  ‘Lancaster was not yet my enemy when I took in Alain. All this time I thought Alain was behind the Pagnell trouble.’

  ‘And said nothing to me? Why? You requested my assistance.’ Damn you.

  ‘I had no proof. I wanted proof. Which is why I chose him to accompany me north.’

  ‘To flush him out.’

  Wykeham nodded.

  ‘Before the Pagnell troubles – why retain Alain if you disliked and distrusted him so?’

  ‘Better the enemy before me than behind.’

  Owen slept little, his mind swarming with variations on the outcome of the day ahead.

  Magda had assured him that Poins was sleeping quietly, that the evening had not taken the last of his strength, but she had warned Owen that if he hoped the man would remember more of that night in the undercroft he might well be disappointed. ‘Oft-times a man will remember little of such an event. Thou knowest it, that soldiers oft forget the moment of their wounding.’

  ‘I have never forgotten mine.’

  ‘Mayhap thou didst need to remember it.’

  He pressed his blind eye into the pillow and tried to still his mind with prayer.

  So much depended on timing once Lady Pagnell and Matthew were at the palace. And he did not trust that Guy had told him all the truth.

  As the sky through the chinks in the shutters paled, he rose and dressed, and found a servant to take a message to Lucie explaining why he had not been home to bed, though she probably had not expected him to return. Then Owen stepped out into a morning loud with birds welcoming the dawn. The guard greeted him with sleepy respect. Owen made his way round the palace, reviewing the guard stations. Satisfied with the number and readiness, he moved on to the barracks to don a long leather surcoat with metal plates and a helmet. If Wykeham’s fears proved justified, that Lancaster saw him as a Becket, a too-powerful prince of the Church who stood in his way, Owen would need the protection.

  A few men still sat over their morning bread, cheese and ale. Owen joined them, preferring to eat with them than at the palace. The building was largely deserted, so quiet that Owen told the page who assisted him with his heavy surcoat after breakfast not to rattle it so. He headed back to the palace as soon as he was suited, stopping only to remind the guard at the kitchen that his duty was to keep peace in the area round Poins.

  All along the palace the guards stood alert at Owen’s approach, then relaxed as he passed. As he moved up the steps of the great hall Alfred came forth to greet him, his lank hair hidden beneath a light helmet.

  ‘Is the household up?’

  ‘Aye, Captain, though I trust they did not plan such an early rising. Sir Ranulf’s son Stephen has just arrived – he must have been first at Monkgate this morning.’

  ‘Stephen Pagnell is in the great hall?’

  ‘Aye. He is demanding to participate in the meeting between Lady Pagnell and the bishop.’ />
  Owen muttered a curse. He had given no thought to Sir Ranulf’s heir, believing him to have wiped his hands of the business. Yet as heir he had a right to be there. ‘Is he alone?’

  Alfred shook his head, his expression grim. ‘He rides with a party of young nobles. Brother Michaelo says they are all from families known to hold Lancastrian sympathies.’

  ‘Are they armed?’

  ‘Knives for the table are all they carry now. They gave up their weapons without quarrel.’

  ‘I do not trust it.’

  ‘Nor should you. They have a quarrel, that is plain.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Gossip about Lancaster, his imminent arrival with his Spanish wife, Constance, and how he will desire details of the proceedings here in York. That Lancaster truly hates the bishop. That Stephen Pagnell is here to observe Wykeham and his clerks at the meeting, hoping to find some indication of who might have stolen the ransom. Friends await a signal at a farm outside the city gates.’

  ‘Do they know you heard all this?’

  ‘I did not, it was Brother Michaelo.’

  ‘Why did you not send me word at the barracks?’

  ‘Forgive me, Captain. I thought you would be here as soon as you were ready … Meanwhile, I gathered information for you.’

  ‘Aye. And I am grateful.’ Owen tried to think what to do first. ‘Has the bishop received them?’

  ‘He has not yet appeared.’

  Awakened by a stripe of sunlight centred over her left eye, Lucie lay for a moment confused, groping for the memory of what she had been doing before lying down for a nap. Her limbs felt leaden, her mouth dry, her bladder full. Gradually she realized it was morning, and far later in the morning than she was accustomed to rising. She sat up with a jolt, remembering the events of the night before, the mounting evidence against the Pagnell steward. She must go to Emma’s house. But Matthew and Lady Pagnell would not leave the house until after Nones and the sun was not yet so high in the sky. She sank back into the pillows, turned to Owen’s side and saw no sign of his having come to bed. Rising, expecting dizziness, she was relieved to experience none. The room showed no trace that Owen had passed through in the night.

  A knock took her to the door.

  Phillippa entered with a cup of Magda’s tincture. ‘I heard you stir. I shall be your lady’s maid this morning. Then Alisoun will change your bandage.’ There was a strength to Phillippa’s voice that Lucie had not heard in a while. ‘A messenger came from the palace early this morning. Owen had much to do there and spent the night.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘Lady Pagnell is at last meeting with the Bishop of Winchester, did you hear? Long before Sir Ranulf’s month’s mind. I am sorry for that, truth to tell. I thought it a fitting sentiment.’

  Lucie sniffed the tincture to check that Alisoun had not given her the original version. She could not afford to be drowsy this day.

  By mid-morning the guards were fidgeting beneath the weight of the metal-clad surcoats. Owen shifted their posts to keep them occupied. His major concern was to prevent any of Stephen Pagnell’s company from slipping a message outside the palace walls, informing comrades of the guards’ positions, their strength and number.

  He was irritated to realize he’d begun to share Wykeham’s belief that he was Lancaster’s Becket, that the duke’s henchmen might think the only means of ridding their lord of his irritating churchman was to murder him. What was worse was a sudden certainty that Lucie would go to Emma Ferriby’s house in the afternoon to learn more about Matthew. And there was no way Owen could prevent her from doing so, short of posting a guard at his own home. He prayed to the Virgin to protect Lucie, then forced his mind back to his duties.

  Michaelo had suggested that the meeting take place in the archbishop’s own hall, as Stephen Pagnell’s companions were occupying the great hall. Owen found them a quiet quintet, two playing chess with Wykeham’s board and pieces, two others playing backgammon. Stephen sat watching the chess game, but quickly abandoned it when Owen approached. Though small and slender, he had his mother’s skill at creating an imperious presence with stance and clothing. He walked with a wide-legged gait, as if spanning a river from bank to bank with his well-muscled legs.

  ‘I started for the minster to visit our chapel and your men prevented me,’ Stephen said, coming to a halt far closer than Owen liked. ‘I told you we have no purpose here other than to see that the Bishop of Winchester plays fair with my mother.’

  ‘My orders are that no one stirs from the palace grounds until the meeting is concluded.’

  ‘My mother can enter but I cannot leave?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I demand to see Bishop William.’

  Owen inclined his head. ‘You have only to clap for a servant and give him a message for the bishop.’

  ‘I want you to deliver it.’

  Owen glanced down at his military garb. ‘I am not dressed for such an errand. I should frighten all the servants coming through the corridors.’

  ‘You are not amusing.’

  ‘It is not my business to be so.’

  Stephen tried to stare Owen down. He lost in the end, spun on his heel and clapped for a servant. Owen took the opportunity to slip away.

  It proved a tedious morning for all after such a tense beginning.

  Despite the drizzle, Thoresby sat by his parlour window, the shutters open to the garden, a pile of petitions lying forgotten on the table beside him. Owen was glad of the draft as he stood before the archbishop describing the preparations. He regretted wearing the heavy surcoat and helmet – his role was to organize his men, not fight, and as the day warmed and the drizzle continued it was damned unpleasant. The whole palace seemed to be waiting for the long-delayed confrontation.

  Lucie sat on a bench in St Crux churchyard watching for Lady Pagnell and Matthew to leave the Ferriby house. The walk had left her with little breath despite a stop at the market and at Harry Flesher’s butcher shop with the excuse that she wished to tell Jasper’s friend Timothy that her scrip had been recovered, though she knew he would have heard about it – a theft and a murder were just the sort of grist that kept the gossip mill grinding. Her weakness irked her, but did not frighten her the way it had. She began to believe that God had answered her prayers and cast out her devils.

  At last she saw Lady Pagnell step out on to Hosier Lane, followed closely by Matthew, his hand ready to support her elbow if she stumbled. A servant trailed them, carrying a sheaf of documents secured with straps. Lucie held herself still as they walked slowly towards Whipmawhopmagate, then she hastened to the house.

  Owen and Michaelo straightened as a servant flung wide the door to Thoresby’s hall.

  Lady Pagnell sailed in, imperious in her purple robes. But something was wrong. Matthew did not accompany her.

  ‘My lady,’ said Owen, bowing.

  ‘Captain.’ She inclined her head a little.

  ‘Benedicte, Lady Pagnell,’ Michaelo said while bowing with a fluid grace.

  ‘Has my son arrived?’ she asked.

  ‘He has, My Lady,’ said Michaelo, ‘and all unexpected by us. I am afraid he did not receive as cordial a welcome as he might have hoped.’

  ‘I did not invite him to attend, if that is what you think. It was my meddlesome steward. I learned of it only this morning.’

  ‘You are not attended by your steward?’ Owen said, growing anxious.

  ‘Matthew will join us. He forgot a document and has gone to fetch it.’ She shook her head as if annoyed.

  A servant followed behind with a cluster of rolled documents held by two straps, a leather thong threaded between them as a handle. The straps did not match. One looked like the one Owen had found round Cisotta’s neck. Something seemed wrong about that. Matthew had sold the tunic that might prove mute witness to his presence in the undercroft that night, yet he had continued to use the matching strap.

  Lady Pagne
ll paused just past Owen and turned back to him. ‘Why are you and all your men in war gear, Captain? Is the bishop fearful that my grandsons will drop another tile in his path?’

  ‘My lord the Bishop of Winchester will explain, My Lady.’

  She gave him a little bow and moved on. Thoresby entered the room and moved to greet her.

  Owen watched the strapped documents as the servant moved past, frantically reviewing what must be done. There was no time to warn Lucie, Matthew was probably already back at the house. But he could not wait here, wondering whether she was in trouble.

  ‘I am called away to the Ferriby house,’ Owen told Michaelo. ‘Have Wykeham’s men watch Guy and Alain. Something is not right. I’ve no time to explain.’

  He called to one of his men to help him out of his leather surcoat. He could not run through the city with it weighing him down.

  Thoresby was irritated by Owen’s hasty departure, leaving him with a hall full of Lancastrians and a delicate meeting over which he must preside, Wykeham’s clerk ready to confront a murderer, but no one to confront. He was about to excuse himself for a hasty consultation with Michaelo when Lady Pagnell proposed to change the seating arrangement so that she and Wykeham would be eye to eye. It promised disaster. Michaelo had planned it so that Thoresby was directly across from her, Wykeham at an angle, thinking peace might prevail if they were not scowling at each other.

  ‘My Lady, in the interest of peace –’

  ‘And my son Stephen must sit beside me.’

  ‘Lady Pagnell, that is not advisable.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I come here in good faith …’

  ‘My Lady,’ Brother Michaelo said, bending down towards her from behind. She shifted to glare at him, but his deferential demeanour softened her. ‘I should be happy to explain all my reasoning in arranging the seating.’

  Thoresby silently blessed him, but it left him with no one to ask about Owen’s abrupt disappearance.

  A tense quiet descended on the Ferriby house as Lucie and Emma knelt in front of the large trunk in which Matthew stored his belongings. Edgar was stationed by the front door, John the garden door, and Ivo was out in the garden by the gate to the alley.