by Candace Robb
He rolled over on top of her, bit her shoulder.
‘I thought your back needed a rub.’
‘First things first.’
Gwenllian woke them with a hungry cry. Lucie wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and lifted Gwenllian into bed to nurse her.
Owen sat up, touched his daughter’s damp curls. ‘She sleeps hot.’
‘Like her father.’
‘Will she soon sleep through the night?’
Owen disliked being awakened; a noise in the night could cause a day of complaints. Lucie did not sympathise. ‘I pray that she will soon sleep the night through, but it is impossible to predict a child’s appetite.’ Quickly, to avoid more comments, Lucie asked, ‘Did Jehannes tell you he saw Bardolph?’
‘Aye. He did.’ Lucie heard Owen’s frustration in his voice.
‘I had hoped that might be good news. Of some help. But it is one more problem?’
‘Ned would say no. He believes – ’ Owen shook his head. ‘We shall not speak of such things while Gwenllian is suckling.’
Men had the oddest sense of order, Lucie thought. ‘How did you find Ned?’
Owen sat up a little. She had chosen a good topic. ‘You will be amazed who found him for me.’ Already his voice had brightened.
Lucie could not imagine. She chose the first name that came to mind. ‘Don Ambrose?’
Owen did not answer at once.
‘Well? Am I right or wrong?’ His continued silence alerted her. ‘What is it, husband?’
‘Nothing.’ He forced a bright voice. ‘Guess again.’
Lucie groaned. ‘I dislike this game. Tell me.’
Owen tickled her neck. ‘You don’t care to guess?’
‘Mmmm …’ she smiled. ‘I shall only guess wrong. I cannot imagine who found Ned.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Owen …’
‘Are we about to have our argument?’
‘Not if you tell me right away. You want to tell me. You will in the end. Why torture me when I am innocent?’
‘You become choleric with too much work.’
Lucie laughed. ‘Tell me or I shall tell Gwenllian you enjoy her crying in the middle of the night.’
‘Sweet Heaven but you are a cruel woman!’
‘Well?’
‘Magda Digby found Ned for me.’
‘Truly!’ Lucie would not have guessed that. ‘How is that possible?’
Owen told her how Nym had come for them at Rievaulx.
‘Though I am not surprised that Magda travels up on to the moors, I am puzzled by her being there now, in such an uncertain season,’ Lucie said.
‘She went to be midwife to her granddaughter, something that occurs at its own time.’ A smug smile.
‘Granddaughter! Owen, you monstrous man, to have such a story and keep it secret.’
Owen laughed, told Lucie of Magda’s family.
Lucie was delighted. She and Bess often wondered about Magda’s past, who Potter’s father might have been. ‘You discovered this for yourself?’
‘None of the women spoke of it.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘There is some rift between Magda and her daughter.’
Lucie lowered the sleeping Gwenllian back into her basket. She prayed that no such rifts happened with her children.
‘She falls asleep faster now,’ Owen noted.
‘Tonight, yes. Tomorrow night might be another matter.’ Lucie snuggled up next to him. ‘You are eager to be done with the difficult part of siring children.’
‘Rub my back now?’
Lucie had forgotten. She blinked back sleep, forced herself upright. ‘While I work on your back, tell me about Ned.’
‘You thirst for bad news?’
‘I want to know what troubles my husband.’
‘It is difficult to know what to say. I am so uncertain what to think.’
‘Then tell me all.’
And Owen did. As Lucie kneaded his back, smoothing out the tight muscles, he told her of Ned’s confusion when Owen had first seen him in the shepherd’s hut, his half-truths about how he had come to be there, the fact that he had known of Ambrose’s death.
‘And you cannot judge whether he is lying or confused?’
‘No. I think some of both, but I do not know.’ Owen squirmed under her searching fingers. ‘Don Ambrose’s death is the worst that might have happened for Ned. Unless …’
Lucie had not realised the extent of his suspicions. ‘You don’t think Ned killed him?’
A long silence. ‘It is possible. But it is so difficult to believe that of him. It would have been the act of a coward. Ned is not that. Or he was not before.’
Lucie was shocked Owen would even consider the possibility. ‘His running away has made you doubt him.’
‘Aye. Another thing I would have said he would never do.’
When such doubts began, where indeed did they end? ‘You blame yourself for giving Ned command of the men.’
‘I do. And Jehannes for saying nothing of the friar’s request.’
His left shoulder felt knotted, slightly swollen. Owen winced when Lucie kneaded it. ‘Chilly and damp up on the moors?’
‘Aye.’
She would talk to Brother Wulfstan, the infirmarian at St Mary’s, and Magda; perhaps one of them knew of a salve that would bring more warmth to the shoulder at such times. For now, she tried a gentler touch, which seemed to help him. ‘Why did Jehannes say nothing?’
‘To be plain, inexperience. And a stubborn streak he chose a wretched time to indulge.’
‘You do not think Jehannes is hiding something?’
‘No. It would be against his nature.’
‘Has Ned lied to you before?’
Owen paused. ‘How can I know for certain? But I think not. He is a braggart, not a liar. I should have listened to you. You warned me.’
That dream. What had it meant? It had seemed merely fear before. But now? ‘For once I should have been happy to be wrong.’ Lucie sank back on her heels.
Owen turned over on to his back. ‘Already I feel better.’ He held out his arms to her, she sank down on to him, kissed him, then rolled to the side, yawning and stretching. ‘I am keeping you awake,’ Owen said, letting her hear his disappointment.
‘I have had many wakeful nights with Gwenllian. I cannot remember when I felt truly rested.’
‘I should have waited till morning for you to tend my aches.’
‘No, silly man. I prefer to have you rise in the morning without pain.’
Owen kissed Lucie’s forehead, then grew quiet for a while. Lucie was drifting off when he said, ‘Gervase and Henry are dead, too.’
‘What?’ Lucie opened her eyes. ‘Where?’
‘Ned found them lying in the beck near where he stayed while tending the flock.’
Lucie sat up. ‘Do you think Ned …’ She shook her head. She could not say it. But why would someone go to such lengths to make Ned look guilty?
‘I think it highly unlikely one man could have overcome both men.’
‘But, Owen. Ned was so far from Rievaulx or Fountains. How did Gervase and Henry also stray there?’ That it was not the work of one man did not eliminate Ned. It merely required an accomplice.
‘Ned believes their bodies were left there, near a road between abbeys, so that word would reach Abbot Richard, and the details would point to the same man the Abbot believes murdered Don Ambrose.’
‘Who would go to such lengths?’
‘According to Ned, Bardolph and Crofter.’
‘Bardolph! So that is why Ned was glad of the Archdeacon’s encounter.’
Owen said nothing.
‘But Gervase and Henry were their comrades.’
‘On this journey only.’
‘Why would they do this to Ned?’
Owen sighed. ‘He cannot say.’
‘Will not?’
‘I think cannot.’
‘Such an elaborate theo
ry.’
‘I fear Mary’s death has robbed Ned of his wits.’
‘I should like to talk to him.’
‘I should like you to.’
Eighteen
Ned Takes Action
Rain tapped on the casement window above Thoresby’s writing-desk. For once he was glad not to be at his leaking palace at Bishopthorpe; last summer’s heavy rains and this winter’s snows had found all the weak spots in the roof and worried at them. Pray God the roof was fixed when he returned. With Archer busy chasing corpses and runaway captains he had little time for his duties as steward. Before Archer had left for Fountains he had given orders for workmen to fix the roof, but who was ensuring that the orders were carried out? Thoresby thought it wise to include a reminder in his letter to Owen.
He frowned over the papers spread out before him – letters he had dictated to Michaelo: one to Archdeacon Jehannes and one to Captain Archer, in Michaelo’s beautiful, steady hand. The quality of Michaelo’s work reflected well on Thoresby, in looks if not in content; he was not so pleased by the content, which was his fault, not Michaelo’s. These letters would be carried by a messenger accompanying the King’s retainers who would ride north today. To York. To arrest Ned Townley for the murder of Don Ambrose.
Thoresby found the arrest absurd. It was plain that there was no proof of Townley’s guilt; however, though Jehannes had expressed his uncertainty to the King, Abbot Richard of Rievaulx had argued persuasively for the man’s arrest. And the King, preferring an arrest over uncertainty, had been pleased. Townley was expendable; the morale of the King’s retainers was more important. Thoresby’s letters explained this to Jehannes and Archer, urged them not to despair, but to continue questioning the judgement; he promised them he would delay a decision about Townley’s fate as long as possible. Admittedly, he had little hope of saving Townley, but nothing was impossible. Thoresby sighed, pressed the ridge of his nose, considered how to phrase his addition to Archer’s letter so that he would not appear to be more concerned by the state of the roof at Bishopthorpe than by Ned Townley’s arrest.
But perhaps Archer would welcome the opportunity to think of something other than Townley. In writing to Thoresby, Archer had told of finding Ned Townley up on the moors, as well as the corpses of two of the men left behind to search for Townley and Don Ambrose. To Thoresby it looked worse and worse for Archer’s friend.
Except when one examined the supposed motive. Blaming Don Ambrose for keeping the news of Mary’s death from him, killing Henry and Gervase to silence them. Only a very frightened man would be so foolish as to murder someone who had been known to fear him. And who could believe that Townley had been so addle-brained by the time Archer had arrived that he had willingly led him to the bodies he had disposed of so poorly? And what of the other men in the search party? Where had they been when Townley was murdering their comrades? Thoresby did not believe Ned was guilty. But he agreed with Archer – it was difficult to explain Townley’s behaviour.
What of the other two left behind to search? Bardolph falling to his knees before Jehannes – what was that about? And where was Crofter?
Archer had sent a trustworthy messenger, Walter of Coventry, in haste to Windsor with instructions to learn what he might of Sir William of Wyndesore and the Duke of Clarence, under whom the two men still unaccounted for had served in Ireland. Thoresby had admitted to Archer in the letter that he knew little of Wyndesore, but intended to learn more. As for the Duke of Clarence, he was unlikely to have anything to do with such a subtle business.
Sunlight reflected off the letters beneath his hands. Thoresby had wasted so much time debating whether to add a note to Archer’s letter about the repairs at Bishopthorpe that the rain had stopped. This was nonsense. Why not simply tell Walter to remind Archer of the work? It would give Thoresby an opportunity to speak with Walter, find out whether he had heard anything of Bardolph in York, or knew either of the Austin friars. As a messenger, Walter would hear more than most people.
Thoresby chuckled as he gathered the letters. He began to enjoy this sleuthing; perhaps he ought to assist Archer more often. That would put another thorn in Archer’s already heavy crown.
The rain had turned the lower ward of the castle into a sea of mud. Thoresby had not foreseen that. He regretted his excursion, particularly after leaving Walter’s quarters none the wiser. But he was rewarded in other coin. As he hurried north-east across the yard from the guards’ lodgings, his boots sucking disgustingly, he heard someone clumsily hurrying after him. He turned. It was Gilbert, Mistress Perrers’s servant.
‘Your Grace.’ The young man was panting, his face a glistening red.
‘Benedicte, Gilbert. Surely you were not running to catch me? I do not walk so fast as that. Especially in such mud.’
Gilbert wiped his sweaty forehead with his right sleeve while nodding. ‘Master Walter said I had just missed you.’
‘Walter? Indeed, I was just there.’
Blinking to rid his eyes of sweat, Gilbert gave a little bow. ‘Aye, Your Grace. He said that I might catch you.’
‘You had business with Walter?’
Gilbert drew a sealed note from his purse, handed it to the Archbishop. ‘I was delivering a letter. As I am to you, if it please Your Grace.’
Thoresby glanced at the note. ‘Your mistress has been busy.’ He smiled at Gilbert, who was still red in the face, his hair damp along his temples. ‘Did you run from Walter’s lodging?’
‘Aye, Your Grace.’
‘Had your mistress ordered you to make haste?’
Head dropped, eyes looked aside. ‘No, Your Grace. I thought to save time.’
Thoresby would not ask for what. It was not Gilbert who interested him. ‘She is a good mistress?’ He tucked the note in his sleeve.
Gilbert watched the note disappear with a troubled expression. ‘If it please Your Grace, I am to await your reply.’
‘Ah.’ Thoresby withdrew the note and broke the seal. An invitation to meet at his convenience. In private. At Mistress Perrers’s house in the town. Intriguing. But no need to seem eager. ‘I might come just after vespers tomorrow evening. Would that suit your mistress, Gilbert?’
The young man had regained his composure and looked pleased with Thoresby’s reply. ‘I am certain that it would, Your Grace.’ He bowed, hurried away.
Thoresby watched Gilbert disappear in the direction of the town gate. So Alice wished to discuss something away from the prying eyes and ears of the court. That both cheered and chilled him.
Sunshine and a fresh breeze had lured Owen to the writing-table beneath the bedchamber window. He leaned against the table, at just the right height to catch the breeze on the back of his neck; Lucie kept the shutters closed during the night for fear of a draught on Gwenllian, and the air in the bedchamber never seemed fresh enough. Arms crossed, Owen waited for Lucie to finish fussing with the gown she had chosen to wear to the Archdeacon’s house. Now she spun round, waiting for an opinion.
Sweet Heaven, did she know how she looked? Owen stared at the white rounds of her swollen breasts that pushed up from the low, tight bodice.
Lucie tilted her head to one side. ‘Why such a frown?’
‘Do you mean to seduce Ned or talk to him?’
She glanced down the front of her dress and blushed. ‘I had wondered about it. The nursing has changed my figure. I mean to find cloth for an insert, but I have no time to do it this morning.’
Owen was uncertain what to say. As Lucie’s husband he would have preferred her either to delay the visit or to wear an old gown. As captain of the Archbishop’s retainers he could see it as a clever ploy: send a desirable woman to a rogue who has just lost his lady, have her coax the truth from him.
‘My alternatives are the gowns I wear in the garden and the shop,’ Lucie said. ‘Do you think one of them more suitable?’
That depended on whether he was acting as husband or captain. What was needed was a hint of her mood. ‘Your beauty
might inspire Ned to tell the truth …’
Lucie’s chin came up, her blue eyes chilled. ‘You would use me so, husband?’
Ah. Now he knew the lie of the land. ‘I?’ He grinned, shook his head. ‘How little you know me to ask that question. Your husband would ask you to wear one of your old gowns, or delay.’
When Owen watched Lucie hurrying down Stonegate in her old gown, a pale shawl thrown over her shoulders, he knew himself for a fool. The gown was very like the one she had worn when he first saw her, and her hair was pulled up in a white kerchief as it had been that day, showing her long, delicate neck. He had won no victory. And the thought that Ned might reveal his heart to her was cold comfort.
When Matthew opened the Archdeacon’s door, Lucie was glad of her choice of gown. He was tongue-tied and blushing. How much worse would he have been had she worn the other dress? Matthew hurried off to fetch Ned. Ann, the Archdeacon’s serving girl, peeked in to ask whether Lucie wished for some refreshment. Lucie asked for water. She paced the parlour as she waited for Ned, listening for footsteps descending. When she heard them, she hurried to the foot of the stairs.
But only Matthew appeared, looking frightened.
‘Will Ned not see me?’ Lucie asked.
‘Mistress Wilton, I—’ Matthew swallowed, glanced back up the stairs. ‘The Captain’s gone, Mistress.’ He began to back up the stairs, his eyes wide, unblinking. ‘The window. He must have— Oh, Mistress Wilton, what have I done?’
Lucie closed her eyes for a moment, ordering herself to question the puppyish man gently, else he might bolt out of the same window from which she guessed Ned had escaped. But it was hard. So hard. Because with Ned gone … Damn him. How could he do this? How could he so betray the trust Jehannes had shown? And Owen. Sweet Mary in Heaven. Damn. Now Owen, home just a day, would go riding off after Ned and she would be alone again. Was she never to have her husband to herself ?
Her stillness must have worried Matthew, for he hurried back down the stairs. ‘Mistress Wilton? Are you faint?’
Holy Mary, Mother of God, give me the patience to get through this day. Lucie opened her eyes. ‘No, Matthew, I am fine. Take me to the Captain’s chamber. Show me what you found.’